


Salva Me

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Bathing Kink, Buy Kyle Collins will always be an asshole, Coming Out, Emotional Trauma, James Bennett Is a Good Guy This Time, Kissing, M/M, Matthew Keller isn't a bad guy in this one either, Nipple Play, Peter Burke Bad Ass, Violence, Written for Fic-Can-Ukah 2015, alternative universe, mirror play, past Neal/Matthew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26235616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: Colonel Peter Burke, retired, runs a private kidnap and hostage recovery operation.  He's hired by James and Lydia Bennett to rescue their kidnapped son, Neal.  Neal is a priest who's been assigned to work in central Honduras, one of the most dangerous places in the world.
Relationships: Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kanarek13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanarek13/gifts).



> **Warnings/Enticements/Triggers** : Kidnapping, physical assault, very brief reference to self-harm (OC), brief reference to clerical sexual abuse of a minor (OC), pre-story non-described death of canon character.  
> Written for Day 4 of Fic-Can-Ukah, for [](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/profile)[**kanarek13**](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/) "This is the geography of his body" – Anything Peter/Neal. This is actually a joint inspiration. A few weeks back, I was very intensely bunnied by a piece of Kanarek's artwork (what else is new) called [Rescue](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/121285.html), and I was so delighted to be able to work Kanarek's chosen prompt into the story that was already eating my brain.
> 
> And when I starting brainstorming the idea with Kanarek, she came up with other awesome artwork to keep my inspiration at a high boiling point and then created the cover.
> 
> My deepest thanks to my alpha reader and cheerleader, [](http://theatregirl7299.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://theatregirl7299.livejournal.com/)**theatregirl7299** , who was also my sanity check and endless well of information for all things Roman Catholic and priestly.

Colonel Peter Burke, retired, hated jungle jobs. He hated them more than IEDs, bad intel, and private security forces, combined. Jungle jobs gave him nightmares. Too much of the wrong kind of heat. Too many shadows. Too much decay. Too much death.

The desert had its own flavors of hell, but they were far tastier than the varieties he found in the jungle. Especially the Central American jungle.

He should have told James and Lydia Bennett that he has no interest in rescuing their son. But he couldn't do that simply because he didn't want to go back to Central America.

Peter had spent the first part of his career in the U.S. Army Special Forces "special assignment" in South and Central America – helping the locals fight a losing battle against the drug lords. After 9/11, when the country's priorities shifted, Peter – by then a captain – had been transferred into the 5th Special Forces Group, and was promptly shipped out to Afghanistan.

Twelve years and two wars later, Peter turned in his papers, retiring with a full pension, a box full of medals and campaign ribbons, and a strong distaste for protocol and hierarchy.

At the recommendation of the shrink he had to see just before his discharge, he took a few months to readjust to civilian life and nearly went out of his mind from boredom. He didn't lack opportunity, just interest. He'd been courted by dozens of companies – his expertise was apparently invaluable – but he had no intention on continuing to feed the military-industrial complex, even from the civilian side.

The solution to his boredom was obvious. He went into business for himself and set up Burke Recovery Specialists.

BRS wasn't a mercenary outfit; it didn't do overseas private security, and never accepted any celebrity babysitting business. The only jobs the BRS took were kidnap and recovery, and sadly enough, there was enough business to keep Peter and his team busy every week of the year.

"I've been told that you're the best in the business, Colonel." James Bennett poured him two fingers of prime single-malt scotch. Peter ignored the glass.

"I am."

"What's your recovery rate?"

"Overall, ninety-three percent, and that's for rescues. Recovery is ninety-seven percent."

"What's the difference?" Lydia Bennett, a blue-eyed brunette who looked like it had been months since she smiled, asked.

"Rescue is a live return, recovery is bringing back a body."

"Oh." The woman covered her mouth.

James continued to press. "Ninety-three percent is good, but what does that mean in real numbers?"

"In the last three years, Burke Recovery has handled forty-two kidnapping and hostage cases, thirty-one of them were outside the U.S. – Middle East, South Asia, Russia, Mexico. The rest were domestic. We have rescued thirty-nine hostages and brought back two bodies. Only two cases were non-recoverable." Peter swallowed against the bitterness; failure was never acceptable, not in his business.

Of course Bennett wanted to know the particulars of the four losses.

"In three cases, the subjects were killed before the ransom demands were made, and in one case, the subject died during the recovery process." Peter wasn't going to say anything more on the matter.

"You mentioned Mexico. What about the rest of Latin America?"

Peter frowned. "We haven't done work south of Mexico."

Bennett was a persistent bastard. "Why not? Kidnapping is a high-volume industry down there."

"BRS is a small, highly focused team. We put our resources where they can best be utilized." Peter locked eyes with Bennett, daring the man to continue. Bennett stared back for about five seconds before little beads of sweat popped out on his upper lip and he dropped his eyes.

Lydia Bennett reached out, as if to take his hands. "Please, Colonel Burke, will you rescue my son?"

Peter took note of the possessive. " _Your_ son, ma'am?"

Bennett answered for his wife. "He's Lydia's boy from her first marriage, but I think of him as my own. He was three when Lydia and I were married. I would have adopted him if I could have. He's a good boy – man. I keep calling him a boy, but he's thirty-two."

Peter was surprised at the sincerity in Bennett's voice. "When did he go missing?"

"We last heard from Neal almost three weeks ago, and he's not missing, he's been kidnapped."

"Are you sure?"

"We received this ransom note this morning." Bennett pushed a printout of an email across the table. "I've had my IT team try to trace the sender, but they tell me that trail ends with a Hotmail mail account and TOR server in Tegucigalpa."

Peter read the email. "One million dollars or your son comes back to you in pieces. Instructions to follow. And you got this this morning? Nothing else, no proof of life?"

Lydia Bennett asked what that meant.

Peter thought the woman was either very dim or very sheltered, but he explained, "Proof of life is something to show that the hostage is actually still alive. A photograph with the hostage holding up a very current newspaper, or today's television news playing in the background. A timestamp that can't be faked."

Bennett nodded. "We've been trying to get a hold of Neal for a while. He had contacted us regularly until the beginning of November, and it's now the week before Thanksgiving. Until he disappeared, we had gotten at least one or two emails a week and one phone call a month, without fail. Then nothing."

"We didn't worry, not at first. Neal's a grown man and he's doing important work. But then when another week passed, we started to get concerned." Lydia twisted the handkerchief she was holding into a rope. "Late last week, I became frantic. James has some friends in the State Department, and when he told them that Neal was missing in Honduras, they told us just how horrible things are down there. It's such a dangerous place. We had no idea."

Peter didn't want to tell this nice couple that it was quite likely that their son had set the whole thing up. That he probably went down to Honduras for the sun and surf and ran out of money, or more likely, got caught up with some drug dealers and found himself in trouble he couldn't get out of.

Except that Bennett seemed to read his mind. "Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. Neal's not involved with this."

"How can you be so sure?"

"He's a priest. He was transferred there about six months ago."

Peter blinked. "That's the last thing I expected you to tell me."

Bennett handed him a folder. "Look."

Peter opened it. It contained the life and deeds of Neal George Caffrey, practically from birth. He flipped through the papers, utterly uninterested in the man's grade school report cards. He did raise an eyebrow at the transcripts from Harvard – _summa cum laude_ – and the records from a Jesuit seminary in California. Father Neal Caffrey was also _Doctor_ Neal Caffrey, with a PhD in Renaissance intellectual history. The last two items in the file were a program from an ordination ceremony, and a portrait photograph of a young man in a dog collar.

The breath caught in Peter's throat. Priest or not, this was the most beautiful man he'd ever seen. Blue eyes, dark curls, cheekbones like knives and a jawline that belonged on a Hellenic statue.

 _Shit_.

Peter scratched the bridge of his nose, trying to mask his reaction to the photograph. "I'm going to need all the information you have. Emails from Neal, anything from the Church regarding his assignment, text messages, dates and times of his phone calls. Everything."

Bennett nodded. "I have all of that."

"I'll also need direct access to the email account you've been using – password and log-in data. My team has better forensic tools than yours. We'll be able to do a deep-level trace and monitor anything that comes in from the kidnappers in real time. We'll need this for any account he might have used or might have given to the kidnappers."

Bennett clearly didn't like the idea, but nodded.

Peter asked, "Who have you been working with at the State Department?"

"Chester Berrigan – he was the one who referred us to you. Said his daughter works for your outfit."

"She does." Peter didn't elaborate.

Bennett seemed to take offense at Peter's terseness. "Look, I really get the feeling that you don't want this job."

"Honestly, I don't want any of these jobs. Rescuing kidnap victims is a dangerous business, and it's likely that people will get hurt or killed. But it's what I do, and I'm good at it."

"We could just pay the ransom." Lydia looked at her husband with pleading eyes. "If we pay the ransom, they'll release Neal, right? You could just give them the cash and bring my son home."

Bennett added, "It's not a matter of money – I'd pay ten times that to get Neal back unharmed."

Again, Peter was impressed by the man's devotion to his stepson. But he had to let them know. "Sometimes paying a ransom works, but most of the time it doesn't. I can go in with the money, but there's a good chance that there will be some kind of ambush. Exchanges rarely go smoothly."

Bennett nodded. "Look, we'll give you the cash, and you'll use your discretion to pay the ransom. Just get Neal back, please."

Peter shook his head, astonished at how naive – or maybe desperate - the Bennetts were. "That's a foolish thing to do. I could just take your money and disappear; I could take your money, spend a few days on a beach, then tell you that Neal was killed during the extraction. Why the hell would you trust me with a million dollars in untraceable funds?"

Bennett flushed. It was clear he hadn't thought everything out. "I appreciate your candor, Colonel Burke. Not everyone would be that honest."

"If I do decide – and it will be my call, and mine alone – that the ransom should be paid, it will be done via wire transfer, not cash."

Lydia objected, "But the ransom demand is for cash."

"And cash will get everyone killed. Believe me; the people who took your son are sophisticated. They might want cash, but they'll be more than happy with an untraceable electronic transfer."

"Okay. We trust your judgment. Just bring Neal home."

Peter glanced back at the photograph and tried to ignore the stirring of desire. Neal Caffrey – _Father_ Neal Caffrey – was a hostage, caught up in a dangerous situation. He was not someone that he'd ever get the chance to fuck. No matter how badly he wanted to.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"You took a jungle job? You hate jungle jobs." Diana Berrigan looked at the file that Peter handed her.

"I know. I spent too many years in Central America. All that green makes me … nervous."

"Boss, you never get nervous." Diana grinned at him. "You're Big Bad Colonel Peter Burke. You have nerves of titanium."

Peter grinned back. "That's what I'd like you to think."

"Okay, so why this job?"

Diana looked at the file. Her reaction was completely predictable. "He's a priest?"

"Yeah."

"And the Church isn't stepping in?"

"Apparently not. According to Caffrey's parents, they don't pay ransoms."

Diana nodded. "This is a kidnapping for money, then? Not a political statement?"

"Apparently. This morning, the good father's parents received a demand for one million, U.S., further instructions to follow."

Diana flipped through the folder, quickly absorbing the details. "Graduated from the seminary five years ago. First assigned to a parish in St. Louis, and six months ago reassigned to a mission in Central Honduras – in the Francisco Morazán district, which just happens to be one of the most violent and dangerous places in the Western Hemisphere. I'd rather roll through Kabul with my face uncovered than go to Tegucigalpa without body armor and six guards carrying TEC-9s."

Peter agreed. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but Honduras is the murder capital of the world."

Diana grimaced at his clarification. "I'm sure that there are worse places – Syria, for instance – but Honduras is ostensibly a peaceful democracy."

"With a booming drug trade." Peter scrubbed his face. "I spent six years in Honduras, slogging through mountains and rain forests and wondering if I was going to get eaten by giant snakes or bitten by poisonous spiders. Or worse, getting into a fight with narco-traffickers who had a hundred times more firepower than my unit. That's what I'm going back into."

" _We're_ going into. You have a team, Peter. It's called 'Burke Recovery Specialists' – _plural_."

"That may be, but resources are finite. Clinton's running point on the Los Angeles situation, Blake and Westley are handling the Mortensen recovery."

"And of course, I'm going nowhere that doesn't have a paved road and ramps." Diana pushed back from her desk and rolled to a stop in front of the coffee machine. Five years ago, she'd been one of the U.S. State Departments most valued troubleshooters, until a sniper's bullet severed her spinal cord. She'd still managed to protect six girls who wanted an education instead of forced marriage to men forty years older than they were.

"Di – "

"Peter, it's been half a decade. I'm not bitter, just … resigned." She made two cups of coffee and brought one over to him. "Ruiz called again, he wants you to know that his offer's still open."

"Hope you told him to stick his 'offer' where the sun doesn't shine."

"Does it count if I was a little more polite than that?"

"Yeah." Martin Ruiz had been attached to his last command – Army Intelligence – and had gotten out a few months before Peter had. He'd gone into the private security business, hooking up with Barrett-Dunne, a Blackwater competitor. His new bosses wanted to buy out BRS and hire Peter and his crew. Ruiz had tried to sell Peter on the idea, telling him the acquisition would give him reach and range and resources that he'd never be able to manage on his own.

Peter had politely declined, but Ruiz had been persistent, offering a trial partnership instead of an outright buy-out. Barrett-Dunne would provide manpower to support BRS operations at a deeply discounted rate. Peter again declined. Ruiz kept calling and Peter stopped being so polite.

Diana suggested, "Maybe you want to take Ruiz up on the offer – bring along a few Barrett-Dunne operatives to provide backup in case things turn sour?"

"With those yahoos on board, there'd be no doubt that things would turn sour." Peter dismissed the suggestion. "Trigger happy meatheads, all of them."

Diana didn't say a word; she just stared at him with an expression he knew too well. She thought he was being stupidly reckless. And maybe he was.

She dropped the subject and accepted that Peter was going to take this job. "What's the payday?"

"Two hundred fifty thousand up front, plus expenses. If we rescue the subject, another seven hundred fifty thousand – which is the balance of the ransom demand."

"Nice. And if it turns into a recovery job?"

"We don't see a dime more than what they've already paid us. Which reminds me, here's the wire transfer receipt." Peter tossed a piece of paper on the desk.

Diana looked at it and blinked. Bennett had deposited half a million into BRS' account. "That's a lot of money for expenses."

Peter shrugged. "There's going to be a lot of them."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal Caffrey no longer believed in God.

Chained to a rock like Prometheus, feverish and in pain, he knew that God had finally abandoned him. No – that wasn't right. God hadn't abandoned him. God didn't exist.

He chuckled. He was the butt of a joke of cosmic proportions – a priest who had no calling. Who had no faith. Who had no respect for the institution he represented.

A priest who didn't believe in God.

Neal yanked on the chain, trying to give himself a little room to sit up. But all he ended up doing was scraping the skin off his wrists. Maybe if he kept working at it, the blood would make the cuffs slick enough that he could slide his hands free.

Or he could just try to dislocate his thumbs.

He'd read about that, in some stupid thriller he picked up at the airport while waiting for his flight to Tegucigalpa. The hero was a wily thief and con-artist, on the run from a dogged, Inspector Javert-type FBI agent. He'd been caught, but then escaped by popping his thumbs out of their sockets and slipping off the handcuffs.

Neal doubted that was even possible. Thumbs weren't like shoulders.

The door opened and the sunlight blinded him until it was blocked by the bulky shape of one of his captors. The man asked, "You thirsty?"

"Yes, please." Neal laughed at his own politeness. Not that he expected the man to give him anything to drink. This was a game they played. _Are you hungry? Are you thirsty?_ If he said no, they'd kick him and call him a liar. If he said yes, they'd dump food on the ground and step on it, or pour water over his head.

Maybe once a day, he'd get a cupful of stale water – just enough to keep him alive.

He hadn't been given any water today, so maybe he'd get some now.

The man crouched in front of him. "You better hope your rich daddy decides to pay up. Otherwise you're going to die."

When he'd been kidnapped – at least two weeks ago – Neal figured that he was about to die and resigned himself to that fate. That he was going to be taken out into the jungle and shot, his body left for the local carnivores. But instead, he was locked up inside this tiny hut, chained to a huge boulder, beaten and starved, kept alive because he'd once mentioned that his stepfather was a very wealthy man.

The strange thing was that only yesterday did the man who kidnapped him ask for contact information – an email address to send the ransom demand to.

Neal didn't understand why they'd waited so long. Maybe his brain wasn't working, maybe it had just been a few days, not a few weeks. But he gave them James' personal email address, the one he used on a daily basis to stay in touch with his family.

He licked his lips and asked, as politely as he could, if he could have a sip of water.

The man let out a snort of derisive laughter. "Maybe. Will your daddy pay?"

Neal nodded. "If he knows I'm still alive, he will."

"That's what this is for." He tossed a newspaper at Neal. "Hold it up and smile."

Neal followed the first command, but didn't have the strength to follow the second. He blinked as the cell phone camera flashed in the darkness.

"Once more."

Neal lifted the paper again, this time holding out his middle finger in the universal gesture of disrespect. That earned him a kick in the nuts.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Everything was arranged – private plane, weapons, tools, vehicle. Diana pulled some strings and got a replacement passport for Father Caffrey. Peter wasn't worried about the paperwork for getting him out of Honduras, but he didn't want any holdups stateside.

And despite his warnings to the Bennetts, he was carrying a hundred grand in cash. He'd need funds for bribes, paying local muscle, ensuring doctors didn't talk.

The metadata in the email from Caffrey's kidnappers provided little useful information. The sender used a TOR server, bouncing anonymously off of dozens of different networks. The closest they could reliably trace the origin to was Tegucigalpa, which wasn't a surprise. Peter didn't figure that the kidnappers had taken the target out of Honduras, or even all that far from the mission.

The district was mostly under the control of the drug trade, with the support of the local police. There was no reason to move Caffrey and risk tangling with competitors.

But pinning the location down was going to be difficult and Peter was resigned to the fact that he was going to have to grease a lot of palms very quickly.

He'd just tossed the last bag into the truck when Diana came rolling out of the building. "Boss, we've just got proof of life." She handed him an iPad.

The picture attached to an email showed Father Caffrey holding up this morning's copy of _El Heraldo_ , one of Tegucigalpa's principle newspapers. Caffrey looked like hell; beneath the scraggly beard, Peter could see layers of bruising – a black eye, swollen lips, a handprint around his throat. But he packed that information away and focused on Caffrey's surroundings. A hut, yes – but it looked like the building hadn't just been thrown together to hold a man hostage. The walls were fitted sheet metal held together with rivets; there was a small, reinforced window, a vented camp stove, even a composting toilet in the background. This was a former military building.

Peter reviewed his mental catalog of military outposts in the Tegu area.

But Diana's news made that unnecessary. "The kidnappers might be smart enough to use an anonymizing email service, but they didn't scrub the EXIF data from the photo."

"No, they can't be that stupid." He grinned.

"Yes, they are."

"GPS?"

"Down to the last meter."

Peter repeated, "How could they be that stupid?"

"Probably not professionals. But you do have another potential problem."

"Oh?"

"There's a very late season storm brewing in the Atlantic. It could be nothing; it could ground you for a few days."

"Fuck."

"Thanks, but my wife might have a few objections. And you're really not my type."

Peter chuckled. "Okay." He looked at the photo again, this time focusing on Caffrey and how he was shackled. "Do we have any small vacuum flasks?"

"Yeah, two. I'll get them for you. But you won't be able to take them on the plane, too dangerous."

"Not if they're empty. I'll have them filled when I land."

"I suppose you want me to hook you up with a welding shop, too."

"That would be helpful." Peter followed Diana back into the building – a converted airplane hangar on the perimeter of Dulles International Airport – and went over to the tool bench. He hefted a variety of hammers before selecting a two pound dead-blow model.

"Here you go." Diana delivered the two dewar flasks. "Anything else?"

Peter did a mental run down. "You've reached out to AFSOUTH?"

"They've given me the names of a few helicopter pilots who'd be interested in helping with an extraction. On their off-hours, of course. I have a couple of Hueys on hold, waiting for instructions."

"Then that's it."

Diana followed him back out to the car. "I'll provide updates and if Clinton can resolve the Los Angeles situation, I'm sending him to you for backup." Peter didn't even get a chance to say a word before Diana held up her hand and said, "Don't bother to argue."

She backed up and rolled back to the building, effectively ending the conversation. Peter shrugged and figured he could always countermand the order. Diana might run ground operations, but Peter was still in charge.

He drove around the airport to a small private hangar.

If Peter was flying commercial, the trip from D.C. to Honduras would take almost eight hours, but he never flew commercial – at least not for business. Getting his gear through security would be impossible. The TSA frowned on many of the things he considered necessary pieces of his travel kit – the pair of TEC-9s, his Glock-22s, several hundred rounds of ammunition, and not to mention the fifty-caliber assault rifle.

BRS didn't own any planes – not yet. A big chunk of the expenses a client paid for was private air transportation. This flight was costing Bennett close to twenty grand, but it was the most efficient way to get to Honduras. Coming home would probably be even more expensive.

Five hours later, the small jet landed in Tegucigalpa. One of the pleasures of flying private was that customs and immigration was handled before he left the plane. In other words, bribes were paid quietly and well out of the public eye.

An armored vehicle – a Humvee old enough that Peter might have used it when he was stationed here twenty years ago – was waiting for him. It was in good condition, with gun mounts and upgraded armor plating. Peter was pleased to see some modern accommodations had been added, like an in-dash GPS system and connections for a variety of mobile communications and electrical services.

He checked in with Diana, letting her know he was safely on the ground. She responded with an update from Caffrey's kidnappers. They had set a deadline – twenty-four hours or the good father was going to become food for the local jaguar population. A place and time was given for the ransom payment.

Peter had no doubt that this was only the first of many hoops he'd be required to jump through before getting to the actual exchange. Not that he intended to jump through any of those hoops.

Peter left the airport and stopped at the welding shop where Diana had made the arrangements he'd requested. Once out of metropolitan Tegu, he made no effort to blend. He was an American with guns and money and while he was traveling alone, the armored Humvee and the assault rifle mounted on the roof was enough to deter everyone but the most fool-hardy.

The GPS coordinates embedded in the proof-of-life picture were for San Miguel, a small village twenty miles out of the capital, and about three miles from the church where Neal Caffrey had been taken. It was also a former U.S. Army Special Forces listening post that Peter's unit had set up and manned almost two decades ago.

Peter might hate jungle jobs, but he loved coincidences.

Before going to the town, Peter headed into the mountains. It might have been twenty years, but he still remembered the way. The jungle had swallowed most of the road, and to Peter, that was a good sign – it meant that no one else had come this way in a while. He parked the Humvee and covered it with camo before walking the last half-mile to his destination.

Peter had to laugh at the impossibility, but the bolt-hole his unit had built back in '95 was still here, seemingly undisturbed. Flashlight in one hand, gun in the other, Peter entered the cave. Even if humans hadn't discovered this place, there were plenty of carnivores that might have taken up residence.

Not to mention bats and snakes and all the other creepy-crawlies that Peter loathed.

There were signs that something big and meat-eating had been living here, but based on the state of the bones left behind, the occupant had probably left a few seasons ago and never returned. Peter headed deeper into the cave, counting off his paces. Luck was still with him – the supplies left behind were still intact. Sealed forty-gallon drums filled with fresh water, cryo-packed food, medical supplies, and caches of arms and ammo. Enough for a ten-man squad to hold out for a week. Hopefully, he wouldn't need any of this, but it was here if he did.

Pleased with the situation, Peter went into town. The local police station was a burned out shell, but the two bars that flanked the building were in perfectly good condition. He parked the Humvee on the street, not bothering to dismount the assault rifle – the vehicle had its own protections – and went into the bar on the right of the burned out police station.

According to the last communication Bennett had received, this was where he was supposed to meet the kidnappers.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Exhausted, nearly out of his mind with hunger and thirst, Neal began to hope that the end would come soon.

_Don't be an idiot, Caffrey. You're a survivor. You'll get out of here and you'll tear this whole corrupt organization down."_

"Matthew, I wish I was with you." Neal looked around, but there was no one else in the small hut.

_"Nah, no you don't. There's nothing here – you know that. But keep quiet; you don't want them to think you've lost your mind."_

Neal whispered, "Have I? Have I lost my mind?"

_"Yeah, Caffrey – you have. You're having a conversation with a dead man. Not that that's particularly unusual, but no need to let the bastards know."_

A tidal wave of grief washed over him. "I wish I hadn't been such a coward. I wish I'd told them the truth."

_"You can't change the past, sweetheart. Besides, if you had – we'd have never met."_

"I know, I know."

_"And for the record, coward or not, I always found you incredibly sexy in your blacks. And even sexier in a cassock."_

"You were always a perverted freak, Matthew."

_"Which you loved."_

"I wouldn't say that."

 _"You didn't love me?"_ Matthew's tone was teasing.

"I loved you, but not necessarily your kinkiness."

_"You can lie to everyone, even the Pope, but you can't lie to me. Besides, I remember that time, in the library …"_

Neal slumped against the wall, letting the memory consume him. Matthew Keller, fellow seminarian, sucking his cock while he was working on a translation of Origen's exegetical writings.

_"You can't deny that you found it extremely kinky that I gave you a blow job while you were reading the words of a man who castrated himself."_

Neal smiled. That was certainly true. He'd found it hot and dirty and it never failed to arouse him. Except now. He was just too weak.

_"Yeah, popping wood now would not be a good idea. Don't want to give these monsters any ideas."_

The door opened and Matthew disappeared into the fog.

A tall black man – an American – squatted in front of him. "You're a lucky man, Caffrey. It seems like daddy's paying the ransom."

"But you're not letting me live. I've seen your face. I know your name."

"I guess I can't fool you. You'll live just long enough for me to collect my cash."

"You're a greedy man, Collins. You've got two paydays coming. – what Hernandez paid you to kill me and what my father's paying for my safe return."

Collins chuckled. "Can you blame me? The bishop wants you dead but you've got a rich family that wants you alive. Neither of them scares me, so I might as well take money from both of them."

"And murdering me won't keep you awake at night. You need a conscience for that."

"Smart man. Pity you weren't smart enough to keep your nose out of the bishop's business."

Neal didn't answer.

Collins handed him a newspaper. "Hold this up and smile."

Neal tossed the newspaper on the floor. "Fuck you."

Collins slapped him. "That's no way for a holy man to talk." He picked the paper up and forced Neal's fingers around it.

Neal dropped it. "I'm done cooperating. You're going to kill me anyway."

Collins mocked him. "You mean you don't have the least little bit of hope left? Not a single smidgen? Again, that's not what I'd expect from a priest."

Neal didn't answer; there was no point.

Collins gave a sharp whistle and the man who'd been guarding him came in. He instructed, "Hold him" and when the guard pulled Neal's arms behind his back, Collins propped the newspaper against him and took a few pictures.

"You know what – how about a few words for your loving and oh-so-generous parents?"

Neal thought about staring straight ahead without blinking, if just to deny Collins any satisfaction. But if this was really going to his parents, he couldn't let the opportunity pass to say goodbye.

Neal kept the message short and to the point. "Mom, Dad, I love you."

Collins sneered, "I suppose you do." He pocketed his cell phone. "Off to collect my cash." He gestured for the guard to let go of him. "Behave, or I'll have Marcos here make you really wish you were dead."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter wasn't particularly surprised that he had cellphone service. Even though San Miguel was a pimple of a town, the infrastructure that the U.S. Army had put in place – that _he'd_ put in place – was still working. It was even improved. His smartphone was registering four bars – no need to power up the satellite phone like in the old days. Diana had no additional updates from the kidnappers, but she did let him know that Clinton had resolved the situation in Los Angeles and would be flying out tonight. Just ahead of the tropical storm that was going to batter Central America.

Peter was fairly certain that Jones wouldn't be needed. With luck and good planning, he'd have Father Caffrey extracted and safe within the next twelve hours.

The locals in the bar did a poor job of pretending to ignore him, but Peter didn't care. He sat facing the door and waited. His patience paid off, but he couldn't quite believe who walked in the door.

Kyle Collins, former FBI agent, drug runner and killer, who had apparently branched out into kidnapping.

Collins spotted him immediately and his reaction was predictable. Shock, a touch of fear, then bravado. He sat down across from Peter and relaxed, as if he didn't have a care in the world. "I'd heard you'd cashed out, Burke. Left the military for good."

"I heard there's an Interpol Red Notice issues for your arrest, for murder."

Collins smirked, obviously proud of that. "Honduras might have an extradition treaty with the U.S., but the current administration isn't particularly interested in complying with the terms." Collins snapped his fingers at the bartender. " _Dos cervezas_ , and make it snappy."

"Not thirsty."

"So, what brings you to lovely San Miguel, _Colonel_ Burke?"

"Business."

"What sort of business?"

"I think you know the business I'm talking about. Father Neal Caffrey."

"Ah, so you're daddy's errand boy? Here to deliver my payday?" The bartender put two bottles of the local brew on the table, glared at Collins and held his hand out. Collins casually pulled out a wad of bills and peeled off the equivalent of twenty dollars in Honduran currency. "It pays to keep the locals well-greased."

"I'm sure it does."

"So, you've got my money?"

"I'll need proof-of-life first."

"Of course." Collins pulled out his phone and set it to play a video.

Father Caffrey looked worse than he had in the still photo that Peter had seen before he left the States. More bruises, the hollowed-out look of someone ready to die, his voice broken as he spoke, _"Mom, Dad, I love you."_

"Check the timestamp – that was taken less than an hour ago."

Peter handed the phone back to Collins. "So, Caffrey was alive about an hour ago. That doesn't mean he's still alive."

"You don't trust me, I'm shocked."

"Why should I? You shot a confidential informant in the back when he discovered that you were taking bribes from the Taliban and smuggling opium. You killed two U.S. servicemen while they were doing a routine search of your vehicle. I don't think you have any qualms about making this video and killing the man once you turned the camera off."

"I could let you talk to the good father. Right here, right now."

Peter shook his head. "I want to see him."

"I could kill you and just take the cash. That Humvee has your name written all over it."

"You really think I'm carrying a million U.S. with me? You really think that Caffrey's parents are that stupid? If Caffrey's alive and turned over to me, you'll get your money in a wire transfer."

Collins got an ugly expression on his face. "The terms were cash. No cash, no deal."

Peter laughed. "Really? You're going to turn down a million dollar payday because you don't want to deal with the banking fees? You've got accounts in the Caymans or Aruba – you needed them to funnel all that lovely money you made selling raw opium from Afghanistan."

"And you're such a fucking boy scout."

"I was an Eagle Scout, actually."

Collins gave a nasty laugh. "Given the stories I've heard about you – you should have gotten your ass kicked out of the Boy Scouts. Hell, you should have gotten a dishonorable discharge."

"Don't worry, you're not my type. I don't fuck psychopathic criminals like you."

Collins finished his beer. "Tell you what – I let you see that Caffrey's alive and well. Then you make the transfer. When I have confirmation, you and the good father can go back home."

Peter wondered if Collins would actually release Caffrey and then ambush them, or if he'd try to kill them immediately after the transfer was completed. For the first time, Peter wished he had backup with him, someone to keep an eye on Collins while he got Caffrey out of harm's way.

"When?"

Collins pretended to think. "How about tomorrow morning? It'll take a few hours to get Caffrey here. Eight AM, right back here."

Which Peter knew to be a bald-faced lie. Not only had Collins just pointed out that the proof-of-life video was taken less than an hour ago, according to the GPS coordinates embedded in the photo, Neal Caffrey was held a little more than five kilometers away.

"Eight o'clock." Peter got up. "Don't be late and don't double-cross me, Collins. I'll take your head off if you do."

Collins laughed. "You can try."

Peter didn't bother to respond, and left the bar. There was a late model Land Rover parked next to his Humvee. He checked to see if Collins had followed him, or if anyone was watching. Using his vehicle's massive door as cover, Peter knelt and put a small GPS transmitter underneath the Rover. He didn't need to track Collins back to Caffrey, but he did need to know if Collins was in proximity.

Which reminded him – he needed to sweep the Humvee for any bugs that Collins might have placed. And he had. Under the driver side front wheel well, Peter found a GPS transmitter very similar to the one he'd just planted.

_Cat, meet mouse._

He left it powered on and tossed it under Collins' truck.

On his way to the site where Caffrey was being held, Peter checked his messages. The storm that Diana had warned about was gaining power and would hit the coast in about seven hours. It would move inland fairly quickly and while it probably would lose a lot of power by the time it passed over Tegu, the predicted rainfall was substantial. Peter was too familiar with such storms and their attendant horrors – flooding, mudslides, power outages. Just a few of the many reasons why he hated jungle jobs.

The GPS tracker from Collins truck showed him on the move. Not towards Caffrey's location, but south, towards Tegu.

 _Good_.


	2. Chapter 2

Neal shivered in the dark. The weather had changed and the wind was making the small hut rattle. A while ago – how long, Neal wasn't sure – Marcos, the thug that Collins left to watch him, had brought him a bottle of water and a bag of stale potato chips. Neal wasn't sure if the irony of the meal was deliberate, but he was too hungry to argue. He inhaled the salt-laden snack food, but took tiny sips of water, knowing that it might be another day before he got more.

He was left alone, which wasn't unusual. Whatever game Collins was playing didn't involve deliberate torture. His kidnapper was simply a sadist who liked to hurt him. But if Collins wasn't around, Marcos didn't take his place. Not that the man was anything close to kind or decent, and he'd certainly inflicted his own share of injury, but only at Collins' direction.

The wind died down a bit and Neal thought he heard something – a shout, then a pop – but he wasn't sure. Probably just his imagination.

The door opened and instead of Marcos' bulky figure, Neal thought he saw a tall man silhouetted against the outside light. The door shut and for a second, Neal wondered if he'd just imagined that. 

"Father Caffrey?" The voice – American – was pitched low.

"Yes." Hope was a fragile thing. He'd fantasized about a rescue too many times to believe that it would actually happen. A narrow beam of light almost blinded him and he raised his hands as much as he could to shield his eyes. "Are you for real?"

"My name is Burke. Your parents hired me to rescue you."

Neal lowered his hands and reached out to the man kneeling in front of him. He was real. Solid. "I – I …" A sob started to well up.

Burke gripped his shoulders. "I need you to keep calm and quiet. Can you do that?"

Neal nodded.

"The first thing I have to do is get you out of these chains." He pulled Neal's wrists forward.

"There's no key – they are bolted on." He'd been unconscious when Collins put the manacles on him, but in the days since, Neal had spent too many hours trying to figure out how to free himself.

"That's okay. I've come prepared." Setting the flashlight on the rock Neal was bolted to; Burke pulled a hammer and a small flask from his belt. "I need you to hold very still and keep your hands as far apart as possible."

Neal separated his arms, picking up the slack in the chain and gritting his teeth as the cuffs scraped against his raw and bleeding wrists. But he was distracted from the pain when Burke opened the flask. Smoke billowed out of it as he poured a clear liquid over the chain and the bolt in the rock.

Burke picked up the hammer. "Turn your head and close your eyes."

Neal wanted to watch, but obeyed. There was a muffled thud and he felt the pull of chain against his wrist – Burke had hit it with the hammer. 

"Shit. Hold on." 

Neal peeked. Burke was emptying the contents of a second flask over the chain. 

"I said, don't look." Burke struck the metal again, twice, and his wrists fell free.

"Okay. Can you get up?"

It was an effort – he'd been forced to crouch and crawl for so long. But he made it upright, determined to get out of this hell hole on his own two feet.

Burke didn't bother to collect the flasks or the hammer, but he did retrieve his flashlight and turned it off.

"Stay close and keep quiet." 

Unsteady, Neal held onto the wall and followed Burke towards the door – a great distance of five steps. The chain still attached to his wrist banged against the corrugated metal wall, but Burke didn't chide him for it.

He opened the door, stepped out and after a moment, gestured for Neal to follow. On the ground a couple of feet away, was a body. Based on the bulk, it was probably Marcos, and it was too dark to tell if the man was still breathing. Neal was shocked to realize he didn't care.

The wind picked up again, far fiercer than Neal expected. He could smell the rain and it was like a precious perfume. 

Burke gestured for him to keep his head down and Neal tried to follow at the pace he'd set, but it was almost impossible. Leaves and dirt hit his face and as he lifted his arm to cover his eyes, he smacked himself with the chain and tripped.

Without seeming to miss a beat, Burke grabbed him by the waist and slung him over his shoulder, fireman lift-style, and carried him into the dense brush. Neal thought that he'd never met anyone this strong and under different circumstances, he'd have taken a forbidden thrill from that strength. He also thought it was a good thing his stomach was almost empty, because traveling like this was definitely disorienting. However, it was better than falling face first into the dirt.

It was even more disorienting to be deposited in the seat of a large military-style vehicle and buckled in like a child. Burke got behind the wheel and they were moving through the jungle with all the grace of a drunken water buffalo. If water buffalos inhabited Central American rainforests.

"Am I rescued?"

"Your rescue is a work in progress. For the moment, you're safe. Collins has no idea I've got you, but when he finds out, he'd going to make things dangerous."

"So, what now?"

"There's a big storm coming, the airport in Tegu is shut and I can't risk calling for a chopper." They entered a deep stream and Neal flinched as mud splashed onto the windshield. But they kept going, easily climbing the far bank. "But I have a bolt hole. I can keep you safe until the storm passes and get you out of Honduras without having to head into the city."

"Mmm. Sounds wonderful." A strange lassitude overtook him. "Mind if I close my eyes for a bit?"

"Okay, I'll wake you when we arrive." Neal thought that Burke was laughing at him.

He didn't really sleep, but the vibrations and the rocking motion of the truck were better than a sedative. Even more relaxing was the sense of safety. 

_"He's a looker, Caffrey."_ Matthew was amused.

"Huh?"

_"A stud. Beefcake. Hotness personified."_

"What are you talking about?"

_"Your rescuer. He's gorgeous. Just my type. Yours, too."_

"You are outrageous, you know that?"

"Of course, which is why I'd do him in a heartbeat. Or rather, I'd let him do me. Every day and twice on Sundays – between Confession and Mass."

Neal choked back a laugh. "Hadn't noticed."

_"Yeah, you did, sweetheart. You liked how strong he was. Didn't know that turned you on. Turning into quite the little femme, aren't you?"_

"Matthew!"

_"Nothing wrong with that. But I'm sure Mr. Action Hero is arrow-straight, a regular boy scout. Wouldn't look twice at your pretty ass."_

"Which means he wouldn't look at your ass either."

_"He can't. I'm dead."_

Neal's eyes snapped open, but all he saw was darkness. "What's the matter? Why have we stopped moving?"

"We've arrived." Burke flicked a switch on the dash, turning the vehicle's headlights on, which illuminated a large cavern.

"Your bolt hole?"

"Yup." Burke got out and went around the truck. Like a character from a Jane Austen novel, he opened the door and helped Neal down. Neal, for his part, did his best imitation of a fainting heroine when his legs collapsed under him.

Once again, Burke scooped him up, but instead of flinging him over his shoulder, he carried him like a bride.

"You're awfully strong."

"I work out."

Not that he took him all that far – twenty feet or so – and set him down on what felt like a wooden crate. Burke asked, "How are you holding up?"

Neal lifted a hand – or tried to. "Okay, but I'm thirsty and I'd really like to get these off." The manacles and chain were heavy.

"Okay, let's see what we can do." Burke disappeared behind the truck and Neal could hear something clanking. A few moments later, Burke came back holding a scary looking tool with four-foot long handles. "Bolt cutters – can use these now."

In another awe-inspiring feat of strength, he snipped the ends of the chain off each of the cuffs. Neal felt light enough to drift away. "How come you didn't use them before?"

"It's kind of hard to be stealthy with these strapped to your back."

"Ah – and what exactly was the magic you did use?"

"Not magic, just chemistry. Liquid nitrogen – it made the metal brittle enough to break."

Neal chuckled. "Like that scene out of _Terminator 2_."

"Exactly." Burke held Neal's wrist. "I want to get these cuffs off you."

"I'd like that, too."

Neal forced himself not to flinch as Burke examined the closure. "Looks like you're right, they are just bolted on. Let's see." Again, Burke disappeared for a few moments and came back with more tools. He muttered, "Could Collins have been that stupid?"

"You know the man who kidnapped me?"

"Yeah – I've encountered him before."

"What are you, a mercenary? A soldier of fortune?"

Burke looked up, and in the light from the truck's headlamps, he seemed almost demonic. "No. I specialize in hostage recovery. My history with Collins predates this work."

"Oh? How?"

Burke ignored the question and concentrated on finding the right wrench to fit the bolt on the cuff. "Can't believe they used imperial and I only have metric. Gonna have to finesse this. Hold on, don't go anywhere – I think I saw some vice-grips in the box."

Neal murmured, "Where would I go?"

"Ah, this should do it!" Burke came back, holding two pairs of pliers and a clean cloth. "This might hurt," he warned and stuffed the fabric underneath the metal cuff.

Neal yelped as the fabric scraped his abraded wrists, but as Burke started working on the bolt and twisting the metal, Neal appreciated the padding. 

Burke muttered a string of curses that might have gotten Neal kicked out of the seminary, but he didn't care. The cuff was off his right wrist, and a minute later, the left one was gone as well. "Thank you."

Burke smiled. "You're doing okay?"

Neal nodded.

"You said you wanted some water, how about food, too?"

To his embarrassment, his stomach let out a loud growl.

"I'll take that as an affirmative."

Neal sat there, passive and exhausted. He kept lifting his hands, first the right, then the left, marveling that he didn't have to move them in concert. Then he stretched his arms apart and that seemed like a miracle equal to the Resurrection. Even though there had been about five feet of chain between the manacles, Collins had kept it short, winding and locking segments of it to the cuffs, mostly to torment him. 

Burke handed him a bottle of water and Neal forced himself to drink it slowly. It tasted delicious.

"Okay, you have a choice – a chicken MRE with potatoes or a beef MRE that's supposed to be chili, and that comes with a side of rice." Burke sat next to him.

"Huh? MRE?"

"Meal, Ready to Eat. Otherwise known as field rations." Burke was holding two bags. "If you want both, you can have both, but I can't promise you won't end up spending a lot of time on the pot if you do."

It seemed like Burke was speaking another language. It sounded like English, but didn't make a lot of sense to him.

"You're really not okay, are you?" 

Neal understood that. He could even answer. "I think I am. I'm safe, I can move." He lifted his arms again, once more appreciating the profundity of that miracle. "I just can't …"

"Process anything. Make decisions."

"Yeah."

"You were kidnapped and held hostage for almost two weeks. Your brain is still trying to adjust to the change in state." Burke put the packages aside. "It's okay."

"Could I bathe?" The words popped out of his mouth without conscious thought. "I would really like that."

"Give me a few. I think we can manage something." 

Burke left him sitting there. Random memories flittered in and out of his head – a sermon he'd heard as a child, the Great Doxology, his mother singing a lullaby to him, James teaching him how to ride a bike. Matthew telling him dirty jokes. He started to cry. Painful, harsh sobs.

"Hey, hey." Strong arms wrapped around him. "Shh, it's okay."

Neal latched onto the man holding him, never wanting to let go. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Even though it hurt, he couldn't stop crying.

"Shh, it's okay." Burke was holding him, rocking him like a child, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his spine.

As quickly as the tears started, they stopped, but Burke didn't let go of him and he felt like he could live in those arms and be safe forever. Except he couldn't. Neal pulled himself free and apologized again.

Burke seemed unperturbed. "Really, it's all right." He patted him on the shoulder. "We have enough fresh water for a wash down, or …" Burke grinned at him.

"Or what?"

"It's started to rain and you could take advantage of that. You could have a natural shower."

Neal sucked in his breath – to be clean from head to toe had been an impossible dream just a few hours ago. "That would be perfect."

Burke led him around the Humvee, towards the cave opening. As Burke had promised, it had started to rain and water was cascading over the entrance, creating the promised natural shower. Neal started to pull off his filthy clothes, but Burke stopped him. "Wait a minute."

Burke disappeared into the back of the Humvee, coming out with a small bag and – of all things – a large towel. He handed him the bag. "Shampoo and soap."

Neal smiled. "Is there anything you _don't_ have in there?"

"I'm a professional, I'm well prepared."

Neal finished stripping. "Any chance you have some extra clothes?" The thought of putting on his filthy blacks again was revolting.

"Like I said, I'm well prepared. Got a bag packed just for you. But you have to get clean, first."

Neal took a deep breath. "Yeah." He unwrapped the small bar of soap – it smelled like home and he wanted to cry again. But there was no point in crying. He took another deep breath and stepped under the falling water. Neal thought the rain would be cold, but it wasn't really – more tepid than anything, but he wouldn't have cared if it was a few degrees above freezing; he was going to be clean.

Of course, nothing went as planned. He rubbed the bar of soap between his hand and the lather spilled out of his palms and over his wrists, burning the raw skin. In startled pain, he dropped the soap and as he bent to pick it up, he became lightheaded.

Of course, Burke came to his rescue. He helped him get upright and pulled him back into the cave. "Will you let me help you?"

"You'll get wet."

"And I'll dry." Burke was smiling and Neal wished he knew the man's first name.

"Okay."

Neal tried not to watch as Burke pulled his shirt off. It fit him like a glove and Neal did his best to pretend a lack of interest in the swath of smooth, muscled skin now on display. This was so very wrong. And even more wrong when the man took off his boots, pants and socks. Neal kept trying not to look at Burke, now wearing only a pair of very form-fitting black boxer briefs.

Neal ordered himself to remember that he was a priest. That he'd taken a vow of celibacy.

_"Sweetheart, stop kidding yourself. You were never celibate. You might not have gotten naked and done the dirty with anyone since … well, since me … but you've certainly spent plenty of hours with a bottle of lotion and your own hand."_

Matthew, the devilish voice of his conscience, never lied. Not even when it was convenient.

Burke took his hand and helped him back under the water, washing his back and chest, under his arms and everywhere except his privates. Neal was … disappointed, but he managed to wash himself, wincing as the soap irritated his wrists.

"Do you want me to wash your hair?"

"Oh, please."

Burke stepped away and retrieved the bottle of shampoo and began to lather his hair. It might be blasphemy, but Neal truly believed that this was as close to heaven as he'd ever get. He moaned in disappointment when Burke's hands left his hair. But they didn't go far. He stood behind him directing the water falling over the lip of the cave to stream over his head, rinsing the soapsuds away.

Neal lost track of time, standing under the flowing water, leaning back into Burke's chest, but the wind shifted and picked up strength. He shivered and Burke pulled him back into the cave, out of the water.

"Hold on." The towel that Burke had produced before was wrapped around him and before he could take a step, he was swept up in the other man's arms.

It was a bit awkward getting around the Humvee but they managed, and soon Neal was settled back on the crates.

"What's your name? Your first name? You only introduced yourself as 'Burke' back at the hut."

Burke chuckled. "That's right." He held out his hand, an absurd formality. "Father Caffrey, I'm Peter Burke and it's good to meet you."

Neal hated that title, but he wasn't going to say anything now. "I think, under the circumstances, that you should call me Neal."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Caring for Caffrey so intimately was torture of the most refined type.

He'd learned over the years that rescuing a hostage or a kidnap victim was more than just removing someone from a dangerous situation. Bringing a target back to safety involved caring for their emotional state, too.

The movies and television made it seem so simple – pull the pretty girl out of the pit and hand her over to her waiting family. The police and the medical teams would then take care of everything. But in his line of work, where he was dealing with hostages in places where family wasn't standing by and waiting, where the police were often just as bad as – or in league with – the kidnappers, and reliable medical teams were hours away by helicopter, he had to become family and police and doctor all in one. 

He had to learn patience and compassion and empathy – skills not in the regular curriculum for members of the U.S. Special Forces. But he was good at it, it made him a better officer, a better leader. His command was one of the most successful in Afghanistan. In nine years, he'd only lost three soldiers. That had mattered lot more to him – a hell of a lot more – than the gold star hanging from a pale blue ribbon that sat in a box along with the rest of his campaign honors.

In rare moments of self-loathing, Peter would think he was pretty good at the whole emotional thing because he was gay. After all, weren't gay men supposed to be in touch with their innermost feelings? More in-tune with all the emotional crap?

One night, a few weeks after an epic failure in Cape Town – a rescue that ended in a funeral – he'd sat alone in the office and got stinking drunk. At least he thought he was alone. Diana had been worried about him and sent Clinton to make sure he was all right. To his shame, when Clinton arrived and tried to take the bottle of scotch away, he'd blurted out his fears. 

"Huh, didn't know that about you."

"What, that I'm gay?" Peter had spent his career hiding that part of himself, there was no reason why Clinton would know.

But apparently he did. "Hell, Colonel, everyone knew. Nobody cared. But this 'emotional crap' thing – I didn't know that you thought that it was a problem. We always knew that was why you were the smartest commander in the field – because you could read people, because you understood us."

"Oh." That had taken the wind out of his rather drunken sails. He'd been about to get worked up about misreading the events in South Africa, but Clinton stopped him cold.

"No one could have anticipated what happened in Cape Town. None of us are mind readers. You do a good job showing us what to look for, but we can't see everything. And who the hell could have anticipated what happened next? How the hell were we supposed to expect that move and plan for it?"

Clinton had been right, but since then, Peter had taken tremendous pains to monitor the emotional state of the men and women he rescued. He showed affection and concern for their comfort and well-being, often providing a literal shoulder to cry on. Doing so cost him nothing and it could mean the difference between a successful rescue and an utter clusterfuck.

But providing that care for Father Caffrey – _Neal_ – was pure torture. Peter had been captivated by the physical beauty of the man from the instant he'd seen his picture. The clerical garb pushed a button, the knowledge that he was a Roman Catholic priest and had taken a vow of celibacy pushed another. Not even the knowledge that the Church considered homosexuality a mortal sin – and that Father Caffrey would likely be disgusted by Peter– lessened the attraction.

Rescuing Neal had been shockingly easy. Of course it helped that Collins was terminally stupid, not just forgetting to purge the location data from the proof-of-life picture, but putting just one guard on his hostage. Collins probably figured that no one would stumble upon the old military hut deep in the forest, and he was probably right.

However, it wasn't just having the GPS coordinates and taking out a single guard. Father Caffrey, despite his debilitated state, was able to help himself. Too many times, Peter had to deal with clingy, hysterical hostages, men and women who exacerbated the already-dangerous situation. But Neal listened and obeyed. He didn't fight or argue or demand. 

He was almost too perfect, too compliant. That was a bad sign, too. Peter was worried that the extreme passivity would result in a situation akin to the Cape Town debacle. But on the other hand, a man of the cloth would be an unlikely candidate for self-harm.

It was only when Neal had broken down that Peter relaxed his vigilance. It was always strange giving comfort to a grown man, but it was important to forge a connection, to make sure that Neal knew that he was safe. 

Except that safety was a relative term, at least for Peter, himself. Neal Caffrey felt too good in his arms. And then he had to do something completely stupid – he had to offer to help bathe him. That was utter, utter madness.

Despite the bruises and the obvious signs of short-term malnourishment, Neal Caffrey was just the type of man he liked. Which made him doubly a pervert, lusting after a priest _and_ a rescued hostage. So he tamped down his desire and forced himself to think of Caffrey as a child in need of his assistance.

It helped that the rain was several degrees cooler than his normal body temp and washing Caffrey didn't give him a hard-on. As soon as he got Caffrey back into the cave, he stripped out of his sodden underwear and put some clothes on. It would also help to get the priest dressed, too.

He grabbed the duffle with the promised clean clothes and another bag with medical supplies. He needed to treat those wrists before infection set in.

Caffrey was rubbing at his chin, scratching at the weeks of scruff. He must have heard Peter because he looked up and smiled.

And Peter felt the impact of that smile like a punch to the gut. "Your clothes." He dropped the bag at Neal's feet.

"Thank you. You've been really wonderful, but could I ask for one more favor?"

Peter nodded. "What?"

"Any chance you have a razor and some shaving cream in that treasure chest?"

"I do, but let's get your cuts and bruises cleaned up, first. Then you need to eat, and then – if you're still awake – we'll see about a shave."

"Okay. Really – thanks." Neal scratched at the beard again and reached for the duffle bag with the clothing.

Peter turned his back; he didn't need to watch the man get dressed. As much as he wanted to.

"All decent, now. Not that it matters – you've pretty much seen everything I've got."

Peter like the humor in Caffrey's tone and turned to look. 

_I am so screwed._

Dressed in an indecently tight black tee-shirt, slightly baggy black cargo pants, his wet hair finger-combed, the image was going to be Peter's favorite wet dream for years to come. 

_Focus, Burke. Focus._

"Let's see those wrists."

Peter made quick work of the bandaging. There was bruising on Neal's face and he'd seen more bruises on his hip and shoulders.

"Father, I have to ask – "

"I told you to call me Neal."

"Neal, I have to ask – what did Collins do to you?"

"He grabbed me from the church just before I was about to hold confession – knocked me out with chloroform or something. When I woke up, I was chained – like you found me."

Peter sighed, he'd hoped that Caffrey understood what he'd asked without him needing to get specific. "You have bruises on your face and body."

"Well, they didn't treat me like I was the crown prince. I wasn't particularly cooperative and Collins and Marcos were pretty quick with their fists. And feet. Got kicked a few times."

"Anything else?"

Confused, Neal stared at him. "What else?"

"Did they … assault you?"

"I just said, I got punched and kicked, I was forcibly taken from the church. I think that constitutes 'assault'."

Priest or not, this man could try the patience of a saint. "I meant sexual assault. Neal, were you raped?"

The silence lasted too long and Peter desperately didn't want to hear Neal's answer.

Clearly ill at ease, Neal rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah – no, I wasn't. I didn't realize what you were asking. But why would you need to know that?"

"If you were, I'd have to get you started on an HIV PEP regimen, plus a course of antibiotics."

"You really do think of everything."

This time, Peter didn't bother with the snappy comeback.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_"You really are a dumb bunny, Caffrey."_ Neal didn't answer, refusing to give Matthew the satisfaction.

"Now, how about dinner?" There was a forcibly cheery note in Peter's voice. "Chicken or beef?"

"Which one is less disgusting?"

"They really aren't all that bad. I think the beef MRE has a brownie for dessert."

"Have you ever tried them?"

Peter laughed. "I've lived on MREs for weeks at a time. It's definitely not cordon-bleu, but it's better than McDonalds."

"Were you in the military?" Then Neal realized just how stupid that question was. "Of course you were."

"A little over twenty years."

"Were you in Iraq?" Neal found himself intensely interested in his rescuer's history. "Afghanistan?"

"Both. But I started my career here." 

"Really? In Central America?"

"When I mean here, I mean right here."

"Honduras?"

Peter gave him a bright smile. "No, _right_ here. The hut where Collins kept you was a Special Forces listening post. I was assigned there in '93. This bolt-hole? My unit built it."

"Whoa." At a different time in his life, Neal might have given thanks to God for such a deliverance. "Did you know this when you took the job?"

"Not until I got the first proof-of-life photo – I recognized the hut. And one of the first things I did after I landed was to see if this cave was a viable hideout."

Peter handed him food. Neal took a dubious sniff, and it wasn't bad. Not great, but also not terrible. Just like Peter had said. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he really needed to eat.

"Aren't you going to eat, too?"

Peter gave him a wry grin. "Yeah, sure."

Neal took a few careful bites of what was supposed to be beef chili. It tasted more like the sloppy joe's that he'd eaten as a seminarian than what was on the label. The sense memory was comforting and he found himself spooning the food into his mouth almost faster than he could swallow.

"Take it slowly. You don't want to get sick."

Neal scraped the bottom of the bag, trying to get the last bits. He wondered if he could get another.

Peter handed him another bottle of water. "You really do need to take it easy."

Neal didn't listen to Peter and finished the water in three gulps. And then regretted it as the food threatened to crawl out of his stomach.

"Breathe through your mouth. Deep breaths."

This time, Neal listened and the nausea subsided. 

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Don't think I want the dessert, though." 

Peter nodded. "Maybe later."

"So, what now?" Neal still wanted a shave, but he didn't know if he could manage. His wrists were bandaged; he'd probably get them wet and soiled and then would have to ask Peter to re-wrap them. The man had done so much for him already, it didn't seem right.

"Let me clean this mess up, check the perimeter, and if you still want to shave, we can deal with that, okay?"

Neal held up his hands. "I don't want to be any trouble. Any _more_ trouble."

"Nah, it's fine. As rescues go, you're one of the easier ones. You mostly do what I tell you."

"Only mostly?"

"I told you not to scarf down your food."

Neal had to laugh. "That's true"

Peter cleaned up from their "dinner" and before heading to the front of the cave, he handed Neal a toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste. Both were put to good use, and afterwards, Neal listened for him, trying to figure out what he was doing, but the rain and wind were too loud. As a child, Neal had loved storms like this. His parents would let him climb into bed with them and hold him as thunder shook the house. He never felt so safe and so loved.

"It's getting pretty bad out there." Peter was back and he used the towel that Neal had discarded to dry himself off. "Probably going to rain until morning."

"Are we going to be okay? 

"Yup. This is a hard-rock cave, it's facing away from the wind and even if the storm turns, we won't get flooded. We – the U.S. Army – built this to last."

"I didn't know you were Army. For some reason, I thought you were Navy."

"Huh? Navy?"

"Yeah – a SEAL, or maybe a Marine."

Peter didn't answer.

"Have I insulted you?"

"Yes, but I'll forgive you. I was Special Forces – what you'd call a Green Beret – for twenty years. And if you mention _Rambo_ , I'll give you back to Collins with a big red bow around your neck."

Neal knew Peter was joking. "I was actually thinking of the John Wayne movie."

"Okay – you're definitely forgiven." Peter fussed with something, pulling a cord out from the Humvee and plugging it into a small pot. "We'll get the water warmed up and do something about your beard. I'll be your barber if you trust me not to slit your throat."

Neal found the idea absolutely outrageous and infinitely appealing. He swallowed and managed to croak out, "I trust you."

"Good."

Peter Burke was the epitome of efficiency, setting out a disposable razor, a couple of clean clothes, a small can of shaving cream and a metal bowl. He put one of the cloths in the bowl and poured the heated water over it. "Use that on your beard, but don't burn yourself and try not to get the bandages wet." Before Neal could reach for it, Peter changed his mind. "Wait, I'll do it."

A few seconds later, Neal's face was wrapped in a hot towel and it felt positively decadent.

"Scoot forward a little."

He obeyed and Peter sat down behind him, straddling him. The heat from those thighs and chest was indescribably delicious and Neal prayed for control. Almost as hard as he'd prayed for rescue.

_"Oh, sweetheart, I'd give anything to swap places with you."_ Neal wished Matthew would stop tormenting him. His commentary only made things so much worse.

"Lean back."

The hot towel on his face _wasn't_ decadent. That was nothing compared to this. Peter's hands were gentle and careful; first as he applied the shaving cream, and then as he scraped the razor against his skin.

"I probably should have trimmed your beard first, but the one thing I didn't bring was a pair of small scissors."

Neal wanted to make a snappy comeback about getting Peter kicked out of the Boy Scouts but he couldn't talk. Not if he didn't want to end up with a mouthful of shaving cream.

He kept his eyes closed and enjoyed every damned moment of this intimacy. As a counterpoint to Peter's steady heartbeat and his abstracted humming, Neal could hear Matthew's laughter gently mocking him. 

"Okay, all done." Peter climbed out from behind him.

His cheeks felt cool, but when he realized he was fully aroused, they turned hot in embarrassment. He did manage to say, "Thank you."

"Not a problem."

The shaving accoutrements disappeared as Peter cleaned up, obviously unaware of Neal's embarrassing state. 

_"Oh, sweetheart. You are in so much trouble."_

Desperate to make some conversation and divert his own attention from Peter Burke's body and hands and everything, Neal asked, "Won't the car battery die with the lights on?"

"Good question, but no. This is a military vehicle and the lights are running on an ancillary battery. I do have a few hand-cranked lamps we'll use for illumination overnight."

"I keep saying it, but you are very well prepared."

"It's the luxury of experience. The last three years I was in the Army, my team specialized in hostage rescue and we learned the hard way about what was and was not 'essential' equipment."

Neal's curiosity about Peter Burke returned. "Do you like what you do?"

Peter shrugged. "It's necessary and my team and I are good at it."

Neal pressed, not satisfied with the vague answer. "That doesn't answer my question."

"I like the satisfaction of bringing people home safely. I like seeing families reunited. But sometimes the process is very … unpleasant."

Neal had to ask, "You've killed people since you left the Army?"

Peter didn't answer.

"I'm not judging you."

Peter finally replied. "I've taken human life when I've had to. Killing people isn't easy, it's not something I do without trying to find an alternative, whether they are 'the bad guys' or just faceless, nameless masses trying to kill me. Every life I've taken has its cost."

Neal wasn't sure what to say.

Peter continued, "The man who kidnapped you is a killer. I knew Collins when he was an FBI Special Agent assigned to the Office of International Affairs. He'd been sent to Afghanistan to investigate civilian contractor fraud, but he used the opportunity to smuggle opium. A young Afghani man who'd been working with my team had seen Collins pay off a drug lord. Three hours after he'd told me what he'd seen, the boy was found dead – shot in the head. Collins disappeared, but two days later, the vehicle assigned to him was stopped at a checkpoint near Kandahar – routine stop, the two soldiers assigned to the gate had no clue – Collins shot them, too. He shot out the security cameras and disappeared."

"I know you're not like Collins."

"If it would help, I'll make confession to you."

Neal was surprised. "You're Catholic?"

"Lapsed. But if you need me to confess…"

Neal shook his head. "Confession is a sacrament, it is a holy act. You can't confess if you don't believe that God will forgive you."

"That would be a sin?"

"It would be meaningless. A mockery."

Peter looked like he was about to say something, but just shook his head. "You must be tired, you should get some rest."

He _was_ tired, but like a small child, he got stubborn. "I'm okay." 

"Fine." Peter didn't argue, but he did set up an air mattress, which looked like heaven. "It's there if you want it."

"What about you?"

"I'll stay on watch for a while."

"You think Collins will track us here?"

"Nope, and especially not in this storm."

"So you're just being stubborn."

"I think, between the two of us, you're the one who needs a good night's sleep."

There was a thread of annoyance in Peter's tone, and Neal understood it. He was being foolish and there was no reason why he shouldn't sleep.

"I promise I won't let anything bad happen. No one will hurt you."

"I know. I'm just … " Neal struggled for the right words. "Antsy, maybe?"

Peter sighed. "You really do need to rest. Maybe if you just lie down and try to relax, you might just find yourself falling asleep."

That made sense, but he was still stubborn. "Maybe in a bit. Would you talk to me for a while? It's nice hearing someone else's voice."

"Sure, what do you want to talk about?"

"Would you tell me about yourself?"

"You already know the important stuff."

Neal didn't agree. "Tell me what were you like as a kid? Did you always want to go into the military?"

"I was your average kid. Grew up in a two parent household, my dad worked in construction and my mother was a legal secretary. Pretty standard life for a middle-class kid in America in the sixties and seventies. I'd thought about playing baseball professionally, was even scouted by the majors, but my arm didn't hold up."

"So, what did you do?"

"Went to college, joined the Army. Never looked back." It seemed to Neal there was a lot that Peter wasn't telling him. Neal understood and didn't press; some things simply weren't worth unpacking, especially with a relative stranger.

"How old are you?"

Peter chuckled. "You're getting very personal, Father Caffrey."

Neal was certain that Peter was using his clerical title to annoy him, so he didn't bother making the correction. "Come it, tell me."

Peter played coy, which seemed very out of character. "How old do you think I am?"

"Well, you said you were in the Army for twenty years, and I'd have to figure you've been out for a couple of years, if you've got your own business." Neal looked at Peter, but the shadows made it difficult to really see his face. "I think you're probably close to fifty."

"Fifty on the nose. Hit the half-century mark last August."

"Are you married?" Neal wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Peter, however, was surprisingly candid. "No. I can't imagine living with anyone. And I can't imagine anyone willing to put up with me."

"Why?"

"You really are nosy."

"Come on, tell me."

"I've been on constant deployment since I graduated from officer training school. And I've never been sent to friendly places where I could bring a family – even if I wanted one. I've been living in battle zones for two decades." Peter paused and Neal could feel the intensity of the silence. "And until recently, any type of relationship I'd want hasn't been compatible with a military career."

It took Neal a few seconds to parse what Peter had just said. "You're gay?"

"Does that bother you, Father Caffrey? That you were rescued by a sodomite? A faggot?" This time, there was almost a derisive emphasis on his title. "Are you now going to tell me that I'm going to Hell?"

In the back of his mind, Matthew was laughing like a hyena.

But Neal didn't find the situation funny at all. He found it cruel and unfair.


	3. Chapter 3

"Well?" Peter was dreading Caffrey's answer. He liked the man for reasons beyond his physical attractiveness. He liked his resiliency, his ability to adapt to the situation. He liked his humor and his curiosity. And he liked his intelligence. Peter had always liked smart.

But all that was about to be ruined – because he couldn't keep his mouth shut. Because his curiosity was too attractive and Peter had been suffering the tortures of the damned. Just when he'd recovered from the bathing, he had to go and offer to shave the man. He wished he had a camera, because in his imagination, Neal leaning back against him while being so intimately cared for was hotter than any pornography he'd ever seen.

"I don't think you're going to Hell, Peter."

"No?" He hated the way Neal said his name, with softness and compassion. "You think I'm going to repent my sinful ways?"

"I don't think you have anything to repent. Real love, real affection and respect between two people, regardless of gender, is never sinful."

"Who's talking about love and respect? I'm talking about fucking." Peter wished he could just shut up, that he could end the conversation – but his mouth wasn't listening to his brain.

"Why are you so angry? Do you hate being gay?"

"No, it is part of who I am, like my height or the color of my eyes." That was the absolute, holy truth.

"It's difficult, being in the closet. Not letting the people who are close to you know the truth."

"Yeah, it is – it was." Peter rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. Maybe the priest did understand.

"That wasn't a question."

Peter gave Neal a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"

Neal answered in a quiet and painfully even voice. "I know what it's like, being in the closet."

Peter wasn't sure he heard that correctly. "You – in the closet? What do you mean you know what it's like?"

"And I thought I was particularly dense when you were asking if I'd been sexually assaulted." Neal gave him a slight smile. "I'm gay, too. I know just what it's like to hide that part of me."

Peter blurted out, to his shame, "But you're a priest."

"I'm a human being, who happens to be a priest."

"Does the Church know?" Peter wasn't even sure that was possible – for Neal to be who he is, given what he is.

"Some in the hierarchy do."

"I guess, if you're celibate, it doesn't matter." Peter vaguely remembered reading something about the Church accepting gay and lesbian parishioners, as long as they didn't act upon their sexual orientation.

"That's the official line, yes. But you'd be shocked at how many priests are in long term same-sex relationships and the Church doesn't care."

"Oh." Peter had a hard time believing that, given the Church's very vocal position against gays.

"And for the record, I'm not celibate."

"You're involved with someone?" Peter couldn't imagine this man trolling the streets of Tegucigalpa – or anywhere – and having random hookups.

"Not for a while, but celibacy requires complete abstention from sexual pleasure. Even self-pleasure."

Peter didn't want, didn't need the image in his head of Neal Caffrey jerking off. It was bad enough that he knew what he looked like naked. That he knew the shape of his cock and how it rested against his body. "I don't know what to say."

"There's really nothing to say. I am what I am, you are what you are."

"We are as God made us?"

Neal laughed, and it was an unpleasant sound. "You really think that?"

"What, you don't?"

"Believe in God, no."

"But you're a priest?"

"Tell me, which is more shocking – I'm a gay priest or I'm an atheist."

"Who is a Roman Catholic priest!" Peter thought he'd been stunned before, but this revelation was, by far, the hardest to process. "Did you ever believe in God?"

"Yes, once upon a time, I did. Once I was as devout as the Pope himself."

Peter had to ask, "What happened?" 

Neal got up and circled the cavern, moving in and out of the lamplight – almost like an illusion. He didn't answer.

Peter retracted the question. "You don't have to answer. It's none of my business."

That earned him a laugh. "I think we've done a good job on cross-examining each other."

Unsettled, Peter wanted to even the playing field. "You can ask me anything – anything personal, if you want."

Neal took advantage of the offer. "Have you ever been in love?"

"No." The answer came easily, it was the truth. 

"Why not? You are a caring man, you have a lot more empathy and consideration than I've seen in many of _my_ colleagues – men who were trained in pastoral care."

"Like I said before, I've been a soldier – I've been living in the battlefield for a long time."

"There had to have been men you've connected with, emotionally."

Peter shrugged. "Let's just say that there was no one I was willing to risk my career for."

"What about now – you're not a soldier anymore. You don't have to hide who you are anymore."

"I may be a civilian now, but the tenor of my life is pretty much the same. At any given moment, I can be heading out into the desert or the jungle or into any number of dangerous situations. I can't be tied down – and that's the definition of a relationship. How can I expect someone to be there for me if I can't ever be there for him?"

"That seems like a very sad way to live."

"It might be, but it's my life." Suddenly, it seemed very unsatisfactory.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_"Well, in less than six hours, you've managed to give up almost all of your secrets. I'm very proud of you, Caffrey."_

Matthew was beginning to piss him off. Over the years, he'd learned to live with the voice in the back of his head. He knew he wasn't haunted or crazy; intellectually he knew that his old friend, his lover, had somehow become the voice of his conscience. If he was of a Freudian bent, he'd say that Matthew was the personification of his super-ego.

_"Oh, sweetheart, you've really lost it. I'm the personification of your super-ego – seriously?"_

Talking back to the voice in his head was never a wise choice – because Matthew never gave in, he was never without an answer.

_"I'll go away when you've made up your mind about your future."_

Neal let out a little snort. Ironically, when he was alive, Matthew had actively encouraged him to drop out of the seminary and pursue his dreams. Back then, he had been the voice of Neal's id – urging him to do what he wanted without worrying about the consequences, about hurting the people who cared about him.

Matthew snorted in laughter. _"I really haven't changed, Neal. You have."_

"Neal?" Peter interrupted the conversation inside his head. "Have I upset you?"

"No, no. Why do you ask?"

"You got very quiet."

"Tired, I guess." _Too many revelations._

Peter tilted his head towards the mattress. "You could lie down, get some sleep. We're not going anywhere until the storm lets up."

"I know I could. You've been pushing me to get some rest for a while." 

"Suggesting, not pushing. You'll know when I pushed."

"And if I go to sleep, we could stop this uncomfortable conversation."

"It's not uncomfortable – just … unexpected."

Neal laughed. "You're being nice." He eyed the air mattress; it was big enough for two. "You could join me. And get some sleep, too."

Matthew howled again. _"You take the cake, Caffrey. Really."_

But Peter didn't laugh, didn't look at him like he was crazy. "It's best I stay up."

"But you really should get some sleep, too."

"I'm a trained soldier, Neal – and part of that training is going without sleep for long stretches of time."

Curious, he asked, "What was the longest you were awake?"

"Five days in the field. As part of my training, I had to stay up for seven days without any drugs or stimulants. And just so you know, I slept on the plane before I got into Tegu this morning. I've still got plenty of hours in me before I start foaming at the mouth or getting delusional."

At this point, Neal was the one who felt like he was about to start foaming at the mouth. "Should I leave my boots on?" Part of the wardrobe Peter had provided included a pair of hiking boots.

"You can if you want to. Personally, I don't particularly like sleeping with my boots on." 

"I was just thinking, in case – "

"In case we have to bug out quickly, you'll need to have your boots on. But there's no chance of that. Listen."

Neal did, and even twenty yards from the cave entrance, he could hear the rain pounding and the wind howling through the forest. 

"Even if Collins was able to find us – which he wouldn't – he couldn't get up this mountain, not tonight and probably not for several days."

"If you're sure."

"I'm certain. I spent a long time in this part of the world and storms like this cause a lot of devastation. Flooding and mudslides in the lower elevations are common. Short of teleportation, no one's getting up here until the storm passes. Take off your boots and get some sleep. That's an order."

As Neal unlaced his boots, he muttered, "Aye, aye, Captain."

Peter heard him and commented, "My rank was Colonel, not Captain."

Neal snarked back, "I'll remember that." 

"Please do."

It seemed that Peter, like Matthew, always needed to have the last word.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Thank god – or whatever higher power existed – that Neal finally hit the bunk. Peter was unsettled, unnerved, and slightly overwhelmed. Except for the aftermath of the Cape Town debacle, he couldn't ever remember feeling this shaken. Not even after a pitched battle.

Peter went out to the front of the cave. It was pouring and the wind gusts were hard enough to send the trees parallel to the ground. The fresh air felt good, it helped clear his mind. But that wasn't the only reason why he was out here. Even though it was impossible for Collins to get to them – even if he knew where they were – Peter had set up tripwires and proximity alarms, and he took the opportunity to check them.

Of course, they were functioning and undisturbed, and the routine helped settle him – a little.

Peter didn't know what was harder – wrapping his brain around the idea that Neal was gay, or that Neal was an atheist.

Both seemed so antithetical to the man's priestly vocation.

Weighing both revelations, Peter decided that he was more disturbed that Neal didn't believe in god than that he was gay. He also realized that this information should have no bearing on how he thought about Neal. A person's belief – or non-belief – in god was a wholly private matter. And it wasn't like he, himself, believed.

Although it was really quite weird for a priest to be an atheist.

Father Caffrey's sexual orientation was a completely different matter. _Father Caffrey._ It occurred to Peter that he used the clerical title in his thoughts when he wanted to deflect his own attraction to the man.

Neal was gay. Neal was not celibate. Neal was …

Forbidden. Off-limits. Above his pay grade.

Peter used every term he could think of to remind himself that the man he was so intensely attracted to was not for him. Self-discipline finally won out and after rechecking the perimeter security, he felt he had enough control to go back into the cavern and either continue the conversation they'd been having, or watch over Neal as he slept.

To his relief, Neal was sleeping, sprawled across the air mattress; his breathing was deep and even. But all of the tough talk he gave himself was forgotten. Neal was on his belly, and not only had he taken off his boots, he'd shucked his pants, too. his butt, thankfully still encased in the same style of boxer briefs that he, himself preferred, was on full display. Peter resigned himself to a long night of staring at that perfect pair of apples.

Once he returned Neal to the loving arms of his family and collected his paycheck, he'd take a short vacation. Go to New York or San Francisco, stock up on condoms and load Grindr onto his phone. He'd spend a week getting as much ass as he could manage and work this unacceptable lust out of his system.

For the better part of an hour, Peter tried to distract himself with his usual and time-honored mental diversions: calculating Pi to the three-hundredth digit; reciting the Constitution backwards; replaying his favorite World Series games and inserting himself as the winning pitcher.

None of those tricks worked. He listened to Neal breathe, the storm rage, and a dozen different sexual fantasies played out in his head – and most of them involved fucking Neal in all sorts of sacrilegious settings. Peter had resigned himself to spending the night in a semi-aroused state, when Neal moaned. At first, he thought that Neal was having a nightmare; which wouldn't surprise him at all. Neal moaned again and this time, it was pretty clear that Neal was _not_ having a nightmare – the sound was unmistakably sexual. And if he needed confirmation, Neal rolled onto his back, displaying a bulge that would do a porn star proud.

"Peter…" 

_Shit. Shit. Shit_ Neal was dreaming about him. Neal was aroused and dreaming about him.

Father Neal Caffrey, priest and recently rescued kidnapping victim, had a hard-on the size of the Empire State Building and was dreaming about him.

Peter's half-hard state went to DEFCON-4, but he refused to issue the launch codes. Neal was sleeping, and he'd be the lowest form of pond scum if he took advantage of that. It would be nothing less than rape.

_Walk away, Burke. Just walk away._

He might have made a clean escape, but his erection made walking difficult and he ended up tripping over the small, battery powered lantern on the ground. It didn't break, but the clatter was loud enough to wake Neal.

"Peter? What's goin' on? Is everything okay?" 

"It's fine, just bumped into something. Go back to sleep."

But Neal didn't. He propped himself up on an elbow and watched him with glowing eyes. "I was dreaming about you."

Peter nodded, not knowing how to respond.

"It was a really good dream." Neal licked his lips. "I didn't want to go to sleep because I was afraid I'd have nightmares. But this wasn't a nightmare." He touched himself. "I haven't had a dream like this in a very long time. But you know what's even better than the dream?"

"No," Peter croaked.

"Waking up and finding you here."

"Neal, what are you doing?" He closed his eyes, as if a few millimeters of skin could block out the image of Neal touching himself so intimately.

"I think I'm trying to seduce you. Is it working?"

Peter took a deep breath. He was about to say no, but the word "Yes" came out in a rush.

"Good."

"This is _not_ good. Not good for you or for me."

"I'm sick and tired of being good. I was so good, I became a priest."

Peter wasn't sure what Neal meant by that, but before he had a chance to ask, Neal pushed his briefs down to his thighs and then shimmied out of them. He pulled up his tee-shirt, exposing his navel and one pebble-hard nipple.

Neal ran a fingertip over it and Peter thought he might just pass out from lust. "Stop, just stop."

"Why? You want me – I can see that." Neal pinched his nipple and his cock jerked.

"I do – I'd be an idiot if I denied that. But I can't – "

"Why?"

"Because it would be wrong."

"Because I'm a priest?" Neal pinched himself again and moaned at the sensation.

"That – and I just rescued you from a life-threatening situation."

"You wouldn't be taking advantage of me. I'm well aware of what I'm doing and what I want."

He could keep arguing with Neal, with his conscience – a losing battle if ever there was one – or he could walk away, and let the wind and the rain quench the desire.

Neal continued to tempt him, to taunt him. "I bet you have lube and condoms with you – you have everything else in the back of the truck, Boy Scout."

"Neal, stop. Please. You'll regret this in the morning."

"I've regretted a lot of things in my life. Things I've done, things I haven't done. But I will promise you that this will never be anything I'll regret."

It was wrong; it violated the moral code that had guided his life, but Peter went to the back of the truck and fetched the small toiletry case that held his lube and condoms. He tossed it on the ground next to Neal and pulled off his tee-shirt. 

Neal licked his lips again and smiled, looking like the very devil. "God, you're gorgeous."

Peter felt like he wanted to preen and pose, but he laughed, instead. "I think that's the pot calling the kettle black."

"You think I'm gorgeous, too?" Neal was grinning.

"I think you know just how beautiful you are. And I think you know that that is the very least of your gifts."

Neal's lascivious smile changed into something else, something a little less certain. "Beauty is a dangerous gift – I've always wished I looked a lot more ordinary. Would you want me if I wore a different skin?"

"Yes, absolutely." Peter pulled off his boots and socks, and then stripped out of his cargo pants and underwear. The cave was warm, but not as warm as Neal's gaze.

Peter knelt on the mattress. "If you want me to stop, just tell me. I'm not an animal." _At least I hope not._

Neal wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him close. He kissed him and Peter lost all sense of time and place.

Truthfully, he'd never been much for kissing. Sex was sex, often hurried and furtive. Kissing always seemed to him to be something for relationships. Mouth to mouth was almost too great an intimacy. Kissing Neal proved that right. He was fifty years old and despite his experience, he'd never been truly intimate with another man until now.

Neal broke the kiss, and smiled up at him, panting and definitely happy. "I think I could do this forever."

Peter smiled back, not the least bit disturbed in the implication in those words. "Let me taste you." 

Neal nodded, giving him permission, and Peter began exploring the geography of his body, following the map of bone and muscle like an explorer. He lingered over Neal's shoulders and collarbone - not the usual erogenous territory - but it was worth the effort. His skin was like silk, and it tasted clean - like the rain, with just a hint of musk. Peter focused on the lateral shape of his collar, laying kisses over the long bone, sipping at the tiny bit of sweat that pooled in his suprasternal notch, before heading south, discovering the perfection of Neal's pectoral muscles.

He teased Neal, licking and gently biting at the muscled flesh, deliberately avoiding his very sensitive nipples. Neal's early display was proof that he liked nipple play, but Peter wanted to toy with him, make him suffer - just a little - for tormenting him.

"Please, please." Neal heaved upward, pressing his flesh into Peter's mouth, trying to make the contact he desired.

"You are so pretty when you beg."

"I'll do whatever you want, but please touch me there."

"Touch you where?" Peter was enjoying this way too much. "Tell me. You have to tell me."

"My nipples - touch my nipples. Suck them."

"Such a dirty mouth." 

Neal, in his frustration, tried to touch himself but Peter wouldn't let him give himself that satisfaction. Instead, he blew a stream of warm air across that sensitive bit of flesh and enjoyed Neal's reaction.

Underneath him, Peter could feel Neal's cock, hard and hot and leaking precome He wanted to taste it, he wanted to play with it. He wanted to savor this man the way he'd never savored anyone before. And tonight, for probably the first time in his life, he had that chance.

He left off tormenting Neal's nipples, kissing and licking and sucking at the flesh over his ribs. He was careful, though, not to add to the bruises Collins left behind. The thought of anyone hurting Neal made him blisteringly angry. Maybe some of that anger was communicated to Neal, who touched his head. Peter looked up and Neal was smiling. "It's okay – I'm okay. Whatever you do is fine."

The anger leached out of him, leaving only desire and the need to please Neal, to please himself in every possible way.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal woke slowly, luxuriating in all the delicious sensations – a soft mattress, the scent of brewing coffee, a sore and well-used ass. "Mmmm." He rolled over and opened his eyes, expecting to see the white plaster ceiling of his seminary dorm room.

He didn't. There was minimal illumination, but all he could see was stone and more stone. _Where the heck am I?_

He looked around and spotted a huge truck sporting a rather disturbingly large gun mounted on the roof, several battery operated lanterns, and several khaki-green duffle bags on the ground. In a second, Neal remembered everything. The kidnapping. The rescue. Peter Burke.

The seduction.

He wanted to just lie there and parse through his memories, relish every moment of his seduction, all the lingering sensations.

"Morning, Neal." Peter walked in, looking like a god of war. "The storm has blown out quicker than I'd expected. I've contacted my team and set up the extraction."

Peter's face was unreadable, but Neal could read his posture. He was uncomfortable and quite possibly regretting everything that had happened between them. Neal wasn't foolish and didn't press the issue. He hadn't expected hearts and flowers, but he hoped that at some point, they could talk about what had happened.

He got up and found his clothing, which Peter had neatly folded and left in a pile at the foot of the mattress, next to his boots. Once dressed, Peter handed him a cup of coffee. Neal might have loathed his assignment in Honduras, the separation from everything and everyone he loved, but the coffee here was incredible. But not what Peter gave him; the contents of the plastic cup were both bitter and weak, and probably instant. 

It seemed an appropriate metaphor.

With typical efficiency, Peter quickly stowed all the gear. Even the mattress was deflated and rolled up into its storage bag and put into the truck.

"We have a few minutes before we need to head to the rendezvous point, you should have something to eat."

Neal joked, "What's on the menu?"

"This morning, cereal packet, sugared, one, or cereal packet, sugared, two. I recommend cereal packet, sugared, one. It's less cardboard-y tasting." Peter tossed him a foil bag similar to what last night's dinner came in. 

Neal wasn't particularly hungry, but he was curious. The bag contained the promised cereal packet, plus a side of apple sauce, plus a brown sugar toaster pastry, plus a package of crackers, as well as a packet of something that was labeled "ground-nut spread". There were also packets of powdered milk and powdered fruit-flavored beverage. "Enough carbs to keep a long distance runner going for weeks."

"Or a soldier on the battlefield for a couple of hours. Do you know how many calories you burn hefting a forty pound field kit for ten hours a day?"

"Yeah, I guess it makes sense." Neal skipped the cereal and scarfed down the toaster pastry with the rest of the coffee. Both items, separately, were fairly vile, but consumed together, they were almost palatable.

Something occurred to Neal. "How did you reach your team? I can't imagine you'd have cell phone service up here."

"Nope, but now that the weather's cleared, I was able to get a direct line of sight to the sky and use the satellite phone link. One of my associates has confirmed arrangements with a helicopter pilot, who will be picking us up."

"In Tegu?"

"No, we're heading to a plateau about halfway to the coast; the pickup will be safer there." 

That made sense.

Peter looked around the cave and picked up the two remaining lanterns. "Get in the truck and I'll shut these down."

Neal obeyed – not that he had a choice. Peter shut the lanterns off and the cave went almost completely dark. Not that that seemed to affect Peter. He put the lanterns in the truck and climbed in behind the wheel. The truck's lights illuminated the cave, but Neal didn't have much of a chance to appreciate it, as Peter quickly backed out. Once free of the cavern, Peter parked and spent a few minutes restoring the greenery to disguise the entrance.

Neal kept quiet as Peter negotiated the road, which was little more than a slightly less vegetation-covered path. Yesterday, when Peter headed up to the cave, he'd been asleep – or dozing - and didn't have any memory of what was probably a very harrowing climb.

The vehicle slipped a few times, but Peter recovered. They eventually reached slightly less difficult terrain and Peter asked, "How are you doing?"

"I'm okay, it's just a good thing I liked roller coasters as a kid."

Peter nodded but didn't say anything else. It seemed that the warm and caring man from yesterday, the one who didn't hesitate to engage him, had been replaced by an automaton. Which frustrated and angered Neal. 

They made it to a real road and Neal couldn't keep himself from saying, "You regret what happened."

"I took advantage of you."

"That's not how I remember it. I seduced you."

"You were dreaming, you woke up aroused. You were vulnerable."

"Bullshit. I teased you, I begged you to fuck me." Neal looked at Peter and could see him grinding his teeth. "I could give you absolution if you are truly repentant. Twenty Hail Marys and a dozen Our Fathers."

That got him a laugh, but Peter sobered up and said, "You don't understand."

"But I do. I'm in your care. A few hours before, I'd been held against my will, and was probably going to be killed, even if the ransom was paid. You're thinking that I was so overcome with relief that I'd simply surrendered my virtue to you in gratitude."

Peter didn't answer.

"My virtue – if you want to call it that – is mine to give or not give. It's also an antiquated and patriarchal notion, and frankly I would have thought you were a hell of a lot more enlightened than that. Do you think I'm some wilting flower, a child who doesn't know right from wrong?"

Peter kept giving him the silent treatment. 

"And for what it's worth, I was horny. I wanted you to fuck me. I still want you. And yeah, I'm a priest and I should be beyond such base urges, but you know what? I'm not." Before Peter could reply, he added, "And if you tell me that _you_ should be – then I'll start putting together the file for your beatification."

"I'm not a candidate for sainthood, far from it. But I can't always have what I want. Especially not rescued kidnap victims who had spent two weeks chained to a fucking rock! No matter how horny they make me."

"What's the matter, are you afraid I'll become attached, like a baby goose that accidentally imprinted on you? That I'll follow you around like a puppy waiting for a scrap of your affection?"

"Yeah. Exactly. It's call transference."

Neal disagreed, transference was something completely different – but this wasn't the time or place for a discussion of Freudian theory. "I know what it's called." Neal scratched his ear, and prepared to lie through his teeth. "It wasn't transference, it was an itch that needed to be scratched. One you don't ever have to think about again. You go back to your life; I go and have one of my own. Our paths will never cross again."

Neal took hope from the expression on Peter's face – he looked hurt, like he'd just been dumped by his best friend.

They drove in silence for a while, and the dense forest began to thin out and then it disappeared altogether as they emerged onto a plateau. Peter parked at the tree line and checked his watch. "We're right on time. Hopefully, our pick-up will be just as prompt."

Peter unbuckled his seatbelt and started to get out. When Neal copied his action, Peter told him to stay put. "Wait here – I want to call into base. Best to stay in the truck, just to be on the safe side."

Neal wasn't surprised at Peter's caution, and followed the instructions. A few minutes later, Peter came back wearing a vest and helmet and a worried expression. He had another vest and helmet in his hands. "Put these on."

He popped the helmet on his head and struggled into the vest. It was heavy. "What is this?"

"Body armor."

"Why would I need this?"

Peter frowned. "I just called my base and got word that Collins might know where the pick-up is. The Humvee is armored, but you'll be vulnerable when you're moving to the helicopter"

"He could be out there?"

"It's possible, so stay put until I tell you to come out."

Peter disappeared again and Neal started to sweat. Collins wouldn't bother to recapture him – he'd just kill him and take his body back to Hernandez. The bishop would probably make a fuss about paying him, but Neal took some small, sick pleasure in imagining what Collins would do to the prelate when he tried to back out.

Peter knocked on the window and Neal rolled it down. Peter told him, "The chopper is about a minute out." 

Neal was pleased to see that Peter was armed – a rifle was slung across his back, one of the shoulder holsters had a pistol and the other one was in his hand. There was also a small radio attached to the vest, and it squawked.

Whatever the person on the other end was saying was drowned out by the sound of incoming chopper blades. Peter opened the door and Neal jumped out.

Peter shouted, "Keep your head down."

Neal remembered the opening credits from M*A*S*H and figured he knew what to do. A helicopter touched down about fifty yards away, the blades' rotation slowing. He started to sprint towards it, and crossed about half the distance when he heard a loud crack and Peter stumbled against him.

"Go – go." Peter didn't collapse, thank god. He pushed at Neal. "Get in that damn chopper and get out of here." 

For the first time, Neal didn't obey. He watched, horrified, as Collins ran towards them, pistol drawn. "You're not going anywhere."

Peter pushed him again and turned to face Collins. "You'll have to go through me to get to him."

"That will be my pleasure." Collins raised his gun and pointed it at Peter. "You're not denying me two paydays."

"Yes, I am." Peter aimed the gun he was carrying at Collins and screamed for Neal to move. "Get your ass on that helicopter! DO IT!" 

Neal ran and even though he heard a gunshot, he didn't stop. When he was ten yards from the chopper, a man jumped out and ran towards him, gun drawn. Neal froze, thinking that this was a two-pronged attack, but the man yanked on his arm, pushing him towards the copter. "Get on the damn bird."

He sprinted the last thirty feet and climbed to safety. As he buckled in, the helicopter started to ascend. "No, no – we have to wait for them. Peter!" 

The pilot shook her head and shouted, "My instructions were to get you away, not to wait."

"You have to wait!"

"Sorry – I've got my orders."

The helicopter got airborne and swung around, giving Neal a brief glimpse of the ground.

And of Peter, splayed out, face down. Collins was down, too, and the man who'd arrived in the chopper was standing over him, gun drawn.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Three Months Later**

Neal went right from the airport to the cemetery. It was small, particularly by southern California standards. No celebrities were buried here, but the place was filled with monuments to human mortality, all the same.

The grave he was looking for was in a newer part of the cemetery, a bit of a hike from the road. But it was a pretty plot, sheltered by a large cypress tree. He knelt down and brushed away the fallen needles that had accumulated from a simple grave marker.

"Hey, Matthew."

_"Sweetheart, I'd say it's good to see you, but you look like crap."_

Neal let out a tiny sigh of relief. Matthew – or whatever had lived in his mind – had been absent since that last terrible day in Honduras. "It's good to hear your voice. I've missed you."

_"Haven't been anywhere - you didn't need me."_

"That's not true."

_"Yeah, it is. You've done a prime job of fixing your problems, all by yourself. You didn't need me whispering in your ear."_

Neal sat on the dry grass and lifted his face to the dappled sunshine. Back home, it was cold and wet, sleet and snow making a mess of everything. But here, the sky was a pure and endless blue, punctuated only by the occasional drifting cloud or a condensation trail left by a passing airplane. 

"It's done."

_"Good. It should have been done five years ago."_

"I wasn't ready. I wasn't strong enough."

_"You didn't want to hurt them."_

"I was afraid. I didn't want to lose their love. I didn't want to disappoint them."

_"But now they know. And you really had nothing to fear. Sweetheart, think about all the pain you'd have avoided if you'd listened to me all of those years ago."_

"I know. You were right."

_"I always am."_

Neal leaned back and stretched out on the grass, next to Matthew's grave. "Maybe they were so relieved to have me home and safe, they didn't care."

_"Maybe, or maybe not."_

_It had taken him two weeks to screw up the courage to tell his parents that he was gay. His stepfather took it in stride, but his mother had been stunned. "But you're a priest? How can you be gay?"_

_"That's like saying, 'you're a priest, how can you have blue eyes?' I'm gay, it's the way god made me." Neal thought it was easier to let them believe he still believed._

_"But, but, your vows?"_

_That was another thing Neal hadn't been prepared to deal with at that moment, so he asked her, point blank, "Do you still love me?"_

_"Of course! You're my son." She wrapped her arms around him and sobbed quietly on his shoulder. Neal's eyes met James' and the two men shared a smile._

_A few days after that conversation, James joined him in the library. "I sent your mother for a day at the spa - I think we all could use it."_

_Neal chuckled. "She's been under a lot of stress."_

_His stepfather nodded. "How about a drink? I still have that Barolo that you gave me for my birthday a few years ago. I think it's rested long enough."_

_Neal concurred and the two of them sat before the fireplace, enjoying a companionable silence. He sipped the dark and heady vintage and contemplated the flames, contemplated the truth. "I didn't want to marry Kate Moreau."_

_"What?" James was startled._

_"I became a priest because I didn't want to marry Kate and I couldn't figure out how to tell you 'no'."_

_"Jesus, Neal! I never expected you to marry Kate just because I wanted to buy out Robert Moreau."_

_"You really pushed the match, you and Mom kept saying what a sweet girl she was, what a perfect daughter-in-law she'd be. You two weren't at all subtle about pairing us up when I was home for the holidays or at semester break. Her dad cornered me the in the library the Christmas before I graduated Harvard and told me all about the merger plans and how happy he'd be to see Kate settled in the bosom of our family."_

_James shook his head. "Maybe I pushed, but I wouldn't have expected you to marry a girl you didn't love. I wanted you to be happy."_

_Neal stared into his wineglass. "I wanted you to be happy, too. You didn't have to love me, you didn't have to raise me as your own flesh and blood. I didn't want to disappoint you."_

_"So you became a priest? Just to get out of marrying a girl?"_

_"Yeah. Sounds kind of foolish now."_

_"Well, it did make your mother happy." James refilled their glasses. "What are you going to do?"_

_"I'm leaving the priesthood."_

_"I guess that's not unexpected. If you only became one because you didn't want us to know you were gay…"_

_"That's not why."_

_"Oh?"_

_Neal chose his words carefully. James wasn't as overtly devout as his mother, but he was still a good Catholic who believed in the power and majesty of the Church. "When I was in St. Louis, I saw things. Bad things."_

_"Neal?"_

_"I witnessed two of the senior priests abusing a boy. I reported it to the archbishop. The next day, I was told that I was being transferred to Honduras. If I told anyone about what I'd seen, I'd be outed and both of the priests I'd accused would swear that I was the one who abused that child."_

_"Shit, Neal – you should have come to me. I wouldn't have let them do that to you. You should have trusted me."_

_"I know, I know I should have. But I didn't. What's past is past. I can't change it."_

_"What happened in Honduras? I have a feeling that there's a lot you haven't told us."_

_Neal shrugged. "I don't know if the archbishop knew what he was sending me into, if he just figured I'd keep my mouth shut and beg to come home after a few months there, or if he knew the truth."_

_"Which is?"_

_"The local priests and bishop are heavily involved in the drug trade and in human trafficking. They are sending women and children north and making them carry drugs. When I found out, the bishop hired a man to kill me. I broke down and begged him not to – I told him you'd pay my ransom." Neal felt ashamed of that moment of weakness. "I'm sorry."_

_"Neal, don't be. It kept you alive." James hugged him. "You may not be my blood, but you're my son, my child and I'd do anything to keep you safe."_

_When James released him, Neal told him the rest. "I have to go to the police about what happened in St. Louis. It's going to be a shit storm when the news breaks. Worse than what happened in Boston. And everything about me is going to come out."_

_"It doesn't matter. Your mom and I will stand by you, regardless of what anyone says, no matter how much mud and muck is flung at you."_

_"Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me."_

_James then asked, "What about Honduras? Will you have to go back?"_

_"I don't know. I talked with a bunch of people when I was in the hospital, I told them what I saw. But I don't think it will make any difference." The whole thing depressed Neal._

_"So, how does one leave the priesthood?"_

"Well?" Neal was surprised that Matthew didn't have a snarky comment.

_"You've surprised me. Didn't think you had the guts to tell them everything."_

"Haven't told them everything. I didn't tell them about you."

_"Or about Peter."_

Neal closed his eyes against the pain. "Please don't say his name."

_"Sweetheart, you've got it so bad. And for some stupid reason, you're here, on the wrong side of the country and talking to a dead man, instead of trying to get that gorgeous hunk of man-meat back in your bed."_

"He doesn't want to see me. I was just a job." 

_"Did he tell you that?"_

"No, but it was pretty well implied."

Neal knew that Peter was alive before he left Honduras. The helicopter had taken him back to the U.S. base outside of Tegu and while Neal was getting a debriefing, word had come in that a second helicopter had retrieved Colonel Burke. He'd been shot in the leg, and while there was considerable blood loss, his condition was stable. Kyle Collins; however, was dead.

A few hours later, Neal had been loaded onto a military transport and taken back to D.C. He hadn't heard anything more about Peter and hadn't wanted to ask.

_"You need to go home and see him. Use all your talents, make him see you – Neal Caffrey the man. Not Neal Caffrey the priest, or worse, Neal Caffrey the kidnapping victim."_

"I need to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life first."

_"No you don't. You need to do this now. Not next week or next month. The Church has released you. The pope has granted you a waiver. You're a free man. Waiting another six months will probably mean another year. Or two. I know you, sweetheart. I know you'd rather slip and slide and take the path of least resistance. If you don't do this now, you're going to live the rest of your life filled in vain regret. Like a character in a Tennessee Williams play."_

"And you thought I was overly dramatic."

_"Go, and don't you dare come back. There's nothing here for you. Nothing at all."_

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It had been ten weeks since he'd gotten back from Honduras and three months since he'd successfully rescued Father Neal Caffrey. Two weeks of those three months were spent recovering in a military hospital at Soto Cano Air Base outside of Tegucigalpa. Collins had shot him twice – once in the back, where he'd been protected by the rifle plating in his vest, and once in the upper thigh. The bullet had shattered his femur and he'd lost a couple of pints of blood.

The leg was healing, but the truth was, it would never be the same. His career in the field was over. No matter how much physical therapy he did, no matter how much he worked on his recovery, there was too much damage that could never be repaired. He'd never be as strong or as fast as he was, which meant he'd put his team and his mission at risk, which was unacceptable.

Diana rolled into his office. "You doing okay, boss?"

"Yeah, getting there. What's up?" 

She dumped a few files on his desk. "Some mission reports for you to review, a couple of resumes that you might want to take a look at. The latest offer from Barrett-Dunne."

"That should have gone right into the shredder."

"Thought you might want to use it as toilet paper."

Peter snickered. "Only if I had the trots."

Diana chuckled, too. Then her expression changed and she looked serious.

"What's the matter?"

"You know I track who looks at our website."

"Yeah. Is the CIA still hitting it hard?"

Diana nodded. "And the Army, too. But that's nothing new."

"Then what's the problem?"

"There's a pretty frequent civilian visitor."

"Oh?"

"I recognized the IP address. It's James Bennett's."

Peter's mouth went dry. "I can't imagine why he'd been interested in our services."

"There's another frequent civilian visitor, but from a mobile device. I was able to trace the address to an account. It's from Neal Caffrey's iPad."

Peter nodded. "Okay." He didn't know what else to say.

Diana backed up and got halfway to the door before she dropped her bombshell. "I wasn't going to bother mentioning that to you, except that Neal Caffrey is in the office and would like to see you."

"I – um – I…" Peter looked around his office and wished like hell he'd had a private exit put in.

"You know, he's even better looking without the clerical garb. He looks like he was born to wear Armani. But then, I've never had a priest kink."

Diana's outrageousness didn't obscure her comment that Neal was in civilian clothing. Peter knew very few priests, but all of them seemed to wear the dog collar all the time.

"Give me a sec, okay?"

"I've put him in the small conference room." With that, Diana rolled out and shut the door behind her.

Peter took a deep breath. BRS clients usually didn't stop by to express their gratitude. 

Then again, neither did he usually make love with a client.

In the three months since Honduras, Peter had relieved that night many, many times, and he couldn't escape the conclusion that what had happened was a hell of a lot more than an encounter between two virtual strangers. Somehow, Neal had gotten under his skin, into his heart, and Peter knew that he'd spend the rest of his life wanting what had never been offered.

_"And for what it's worth, I was horny. I wanted you to fuck me. I still want you. And yeah, I'm a priest and I should be beyond such base urges, but you know what? I'm not."_

A small part of him hoped that Neal had meant just what he said – that the night was just an itch to be scratched – a small part of him that wanted his life to stay the same. No hooks, no ties, no body.

But the other part of him, the one that watched Diana and her wife negotiate chores and battle over what to watch on television and kiss each other over pasta, wanted to believe that Neal had been deflecting. That what they experienced was something more than base urges.

And now, Neal Caffrey was waiting for him in his conference room.

He reached for his cane and levered himself out of his chair. At least he'd been able to exchange the aluminum hospital model for something a bit more stylish. This one was walnut with nickel fittings. Jones had suggested getting a sword cane, but he'd opted for the model with the flask.

It might be another year before he'd be able to walk without it. But at least he was able to walk.

Diana had left the privacy glass off and Peter took a few seconds to look at Neal, who had his back to him. He was examining a series of framed photographs. Diana was right; Neal was made to wear expensive and well-cut suits, although Peter had no clue if the gray wool he was wearing was really Armani.

He opened the door and Neal turned around. Peter quickly cataloged the changes – his face had lost that haunted look, and of course the bruising was gone. His hair was shorter, or maybe it had been tamed by something that gave it a rich gleam. Time and care seemed to have healed a lot of the surface wounds. "How are you?"

"I'm good." Neal saw the cane he was leaning on and frowned. "I was furious when they left you. I wanted to jump out of the helicopter."

Peter shook his head at that foolishness. "I had never planned on accompanying you on that ride. My associate, Jones, was there to see you home. I needed to deal with Collins."

"You planned to find him and kill him?" Neal seemed perturbed by that idea.

"No, bring him back for trial."

"But that's not necessary now."

"No, it's not. He's dead." His leg aching, Peter rested his ass on the conference table and flipped on the switch for the privacy glass. He didn't want to give his staff front row seats to what might be the most important moment of his life. "You look good."

Neal actually blushed and looked down at himself. "Thanks. I think I'd rather go naked than wear black again."

Peter felt his heart start to race. "I thought that black was standard issue for Roman Catholic priests."

"For those who are actually functioning as priests, yes. But I'm not."

"So, you're not a priest anymore?" Peter hoped he sounded casual.

Neal gave him a little head wobble – not a nod or a shake. "It's complicated. The sacrament of Holy Orders can't be undone – once a priest, always a priest. But I've been released from my responsibilities and duties. Technically, I still am a priest, but I'll never function as one again. I've been laicized."

Peter was unfamiliar with the word. "What does that mean?"

"Basically, I have the Church's blessing to not be a priest and no longer am required to observe my vows."

"As if you ever have." Peter couldn't stop that comment if his life depended on it.

Neal laughed, and the sound was like a joyously ringing bell. "That is really quite true."

Peter couldn't stand it anymore. "Why are you here?"

"Isn't it obvious? I wanted to see you."

"Why?" Peter hoped, but he needed to hear.

"Because I think we might have something. And I'd like to see if it's real. I know all the theories about trauma attachments and this just might be a textbook case, but I really believe there's something more between us. I've spent a lot of my life trying to make other people happy, to satisfy what I think are their expectations. But now, I want to make myself happy." 

"I want you to be happy, too." God, he sounded like such an idiot.

"Good. You know what would make me really happy?"

Peter licked his lips. "Letting me make love to you in a real bed?"

Neal laughed again. "I was going to say, taking you out to dinner and holding hands at the movies. Go out on a few dates, take things slowly."

Heat seared his cheeks. "Oh, okay. We can do that."

Neal smiled. "I'm joking with you. I was going to say getting you to kiss me, then dinner, then a stop at the drug store for condoms and lube, then –"

"I'm a boy scout, remember? I already have condoms and lube." Peter felt himself grinning from ear to ear.

"Okay, so no need to stop. We can go to your apartment and fuck until we're blind."

"Make love." He corrected Neal.

Neal's eyes went soft as he agreed. "Yes. Make love." 

Peter wrapped a hand around the back of Neal's neck, hauling him close. "So, you want me to kiss you first?"

"That's the plan."

Peter stroked Neal's jaw, loving the slight rasp of beard against his thumb. "I want to shave you again. Maybe watch ourselves in the mirror."

"I'd like that." Neal's voice was breathy, as if he were as lightheaded as Peter was feeling. "Will you please kiss me?"

Neal didn't have to ask twice. Peter captured his lips and couldn't stop the moan of satisfaction. Neal's hands were cupped around his face, holding him like he was something precious, something to be cherished and protected. 

This was a kiss of beginnings. It was a kiss that marked the start of something he'd never dreamed possible. Yes, it was perfection, but it was more than that. It was hope. It was happiness.

Neal's kiss was his salvation.

__

FIN


End file.
